


Safe with you.

by LeighLemont



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abused Sam Winchester, Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry John Winchester, Angry Sam Winchester, Anxiety, Anxious Dean Winchester, Bad Parent John Winchester, Brother/Brother Incest, Child Abuse, Consensual Underage Sex, Curious Sam Winchester, Dark, Dissociation, Drug Use, Drugged Dean Winchester, Drunk Dean Winchester, Drunk John Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Description, Guilty Dean Winchester, High Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Nightmares, Observant Sam Winchester, Panic Attacks, Parental Bobby Singer, Physical Abuse, Protective Bobby Singer, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad, Scared Dean Winchester, Sexual Abuse, Sibling Incest, Sleeptalking, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Sex, Violence, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, hurt not always comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-06-28 11:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 101,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15706212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeighLemont/pseuds/LeighLemont
Summary: WARNING: PLEASE READ THIS FIRSTThis is an EXTREMELY  graphic fic so please read all of the tags and know that they are all there for a reason. Content including and not limited to: extreme depictions of violence, underage sex/drugs/alcohol, vivid descriptions of anxiety disorders/nightmares/panic attacks, torture, depictions of sexual/physical/emotional abuse and neglect, Sexual assault: Father-son non consensual, Incest: Brother-brother consensual...Please please please read the tags and know that they are NOT just there for fun. This is a very very dark piece.Summary:Sometimes when John came back from a hunt and was becoming reunited with whatever hotel room or flat they had rented for the time being, he still had a lot of adrenaline left and wasn't ready to settle. When nothing else worked, when he couldn’t get the energy spike out of his system, sometimes he took it out on Dean. It was just something that started happening.  John couldn’t remember exactly when and he didn’t really care.





	1. Same rules as usual.

Sometimes when John came back from a hunt and was becoming reunited with whatever hotel room or flat they had rented for the time being, he still had a lot of adrenaline left and wasn't ready to settle. When nothing else worked, when he couldn’t get the energy spike out of his system, sometimes he took it out on Dean. It was just something that started happening. John couldn’t remember exactly when and he didn’t really care. Dean was there and obedient enough, and John needed the relief. 

It was on one of these nights Dean woke up tied to a kitchen chair. He was blindfolded, wearing his pajamas and no shoes. He tested the ropes the way John had shown him, but there was no give in the restraints. Dean breathed deeply and tried not to panic. He couldn’t see, and he couldn’t move. He didn’t know where Sam was. He had to try to figure out where he was and if he was alone.

He listened hard to his surroundings, trying to pick out anything discernible that would tell him where he was. He could hear cars outside, but there wasn’t much traffic. He could hear the steady tick of a clock nearby and he could feel carpet beneath his toes.

He couldn't tell if it was day or night, the blindfold covered his eyes completely. He felt like he hadn't been asleep for long, but he had no way to tell. He wondered if it was bright outside, like it had been with Sam earlier...or yesterday… he wasn't sure which was more accurate. 

Shaking his head he focused back on his current plight. He breathed in deeply again, trying to recognize any smells around him that would help him figure out where he was. 

Dean frowned. It smelled the same as before he’d gone to sleep. There was the faint smell of cleaner masked beneath the smell of day old pizza and old boots. He was still in the hotel room. 

“Dad?” Dean whispered hopefully. He heard a bed shift and then the blindfold around his eyes gave way to the dim light of the hotel room, illuminated by a single bedside lamp. 

“Too long Dean.” John whispered back, sparing a glance towards where Sam was sleeping soundly. “And it should have woken you up when I got you from bed.” 

“Sorry.” Dean muttered back, still testing the ropes for somewhere he could escape. 

“Not good enough.” John said shrugging. “If I’d been someone else I could have you out of town by now. Sam could be dead. Or you could be dead and Sam could be gone...Not good enough Dean.” 

Dean didn’t say anything, just nodded. He didn’t know how he was supposed to fix that particular problem, sleeping too soundly, but he knew it was a problem. As much as Dean hated it, as much as it wasn’t fair, it was true. It didn’t matter that Sam was handy with a knife and Dean could shoot a hunting rifle on target if Dean didn’t wake up when they were in danger. 

“I thought I told you not to leave the hotel. I left enough food and money, but you and Sam still decided to go walking around town even though you know what’s really happening here.” John said conversationally. Dean froze, ignoring the restraints he’d still been half struggling against and staring up at John. It had never occurred to him that John could be watching when they’d left the hotel the day before. He’d never stayed and watched them before when he’d gone on a hunt. 

They'd gone down to the park nearby. Even though Dean knew he wasn’t allowed to take Sam places like that, he always did anyway. He considered it scouting out the area for threats...and Sam always made the compelling argument that there were sandboxes and slides awaiting them out there if Dean would bend the rules. 

Dean had no excuse ready, and no time to come up with one. 

“Do you always break the rules when I leave Dean?” 

Dean swallowed. The answer was a pretty solid yes from where Dean was sitting. He usually didn’t make Sam stay in the hotel the whole time they were waiting for dad to get done a job like he was supposed to. He didn’t always make Sam train on days when dad wasn't there. He didn’t break the rules because he wanted to misbehave or anything, more because watching Sam light up on a ‘day off’ was about the only thing that made Dean smile. It was the only time Dean really relaxed. 

Instead of answering Dean kept his mouth shut. Avoiding eye-contact with John, Dean looked over to where Sam was laying. He was still tucked into the comforter, still asleep on the pillows none the wiser to John’s return. No, Sam wouldn’t get in trouble for yesterday. That would be all on Dean. Somehow that made whatever punishment John had waiting bearable. 

“I’m going to give you less time to get away tonight.” John said standing up. He started to loosen the ropes holding Dean to the chair. Dean rose to his feet and went to retrieve his shoes from beside the door, but a steady hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked up at John, waiting. “Not that easy, boy. Give me your hand.” 

Dean held out his hand and John took it, placing it across Dean’s chest to rest his fingertips on his shoulder. 

“Stay there.” John instructed, taking a step away from him back towards the chair. Dean didn’t like where this was going, but he stayed where he was until John returned a few seconds later with one of the cords of rope that had secured Dean to the chair. This was new, and Dean didn’t particularly like the idea, but he lifted his other arm without complaint when John secured the rope around him. 

Once John had immobilized Dean’s arm across his chest, he stepped away and opened the door. The pavement looked wet outside their motel room. Dean reached out with one of his feet to toe on his shoes, but John kicked them gently out of the way.

“What-”

“Same rules as usual, Dean.” John said, slinging his rifle across his back and ignoring the question. Dean knew it was just a paintball gun, and that John wasn’t going to be shooting real rounds at him, but it always stung like a bitch when he got clipped with it. Usually the large welts would disappear after a couple days. He’d always been able to hide them until they’d gone away and he knew John never aimed for his head. 

“I’ll give you a head start, but then I’m going to start hunting you. I’m not going to wait as long to come find you. You need to think smart and stay hidden. You hear me?” John asked.

“Why can’t I have shoes?” Dean pulled absently on the rope securing his arm. He couldn’t move his arm at all and the cord was uncomfortable and tight around his chest. John produced a stop watch from his pocket. 

Dean glanced at the clock, it was just after three, and John didn’t like to keep going much past six. Sam was too unreliable of a sleeper in the morning to be gone that long. That meant...three hours. John wanted him to run and hide without the use of his arm and no shoes for almost three hours. Dean looked outside at the after-rain mist hanging in the air. He was definitely going to get shot more than usual tonight. He felt a flare of panic run up through his stomach and into his throat. He swallowed it back. John wasn’t going to go easy on him if he cried, if anything that was likely to make the whole training session even that much more difficult. 

Dean breathed deeply and concentrated on which direction he was going to go as soon as his feet hit the pavement outside. He didn’t have much of a plan, but there was no time to waste feeling afraid. He knew that if he didn’t run, John would empty the paintball gun on him right there and reload. It was better to play along and get it out of John’s system. 

“Go.” John said quietly. Dean bolted out the door and took off. John didn’t watch after him as he ran. He liked to give the boy half a chance to get away before he went after him. Besides, he had things to take care of here first. 

He paused to brush a piece of Sam’s hair back out of his eyes before securing the room to leave Sam alone. He checked the salt lines across the windows, and put a bottle of holy water beside Sam on the bed. He double checked the salt lines he always poured under the beds just in case something found them in the night. He checked Sam’s bag, making sure Sam’s weapons were there before leaving them beside the holy water on the bed next to Sam. Sam didn't know what John hunted, Dean and John tried to keep things like that away from Sam, but Sam knew how to use the weapons John had left him and he knew not to touch the salt poured under the windows. John poured a new salt line across the door, and clicked off the bedside lamp. 

He locked the door quietly behind him, hopefully keeping the living from disturbing Sam as he slept. He would check in on and off as he hunted to make sure Sam was still safe. He always did between catches. It gave Dean time to get further, and that made the hunt more worthwhile. That was his usual preference, to have Dean get far enough that it was a challenge, but tonight was different. Tonight wasn’t really about training Dean, or really about taking out his own frustrations, though his own skin was already itching to be tracking Dean as he ran. 

No, tonight he wanted to punish Dean for disobeying and that meant catching him as often as possible. It wasn’t the paintball gun he wanted to use to punish Dean, even Sammy could get shot with the paintball gun now without causing a scene. 

Instead, he was looking to break Dean and make him listen. He knew Dean internalized every failure, on and off the job, as some sort of self-hating drive towards perfection. Dean knew better than to lead Sam out into the open unprotected. John was sure after a few rounds of being taken down a peg, Dean wouldn’t make the same mistake again. 

He turned away from the door, checking the handle one last time and tucking the hotel key into his pocket. He pulled the stopwatch from his jacket pocket and clicked the start button before walking off in the direction Dean had chosen, a side street that would bring him out near the gas station. 

***

Dean didn’t want to accept John’s help into the bathtub. 

The very idea of accepting John’s help made his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He was old enough he should be able to take care of himself, but he was sore and tired and even resting on the tile floor of the bathroom was making the soles of his feet burn with pain. 

John was standing in front of the mirror, inspecting the side of his face thoughtfully. He was wearing his jeans and boots, but his drenched shirt and soaked-through coat had been abandoned on the chair in the hotel room. He washed his face to remove the mud Dean had planted there when he’d dropped down out of a tree and managed to kick John in the face before getting caught. John was a little impressed with Dean, somehow he’d managed to climb his way into a tree and sneak up on John with his arm tied down. Still, Dean hadn’t thought the plan through and he’d gotten caught. 

Dean was sitting on the side of the tub, which was filling with hot water. He was waiting his turn. Once John was satisfied and comfortable, he’d get Dean back to normal too. The ropes around his chest were cutting into him. The circulation in his arm was cut off and his muscles were stiff. His feet were burning on the tile of the bathroom floor. John brushed a finger over the bruise on his face again before turning off the sink tap and turning to face Dean. Dean who was staring down at the floor tiles as though they were the saddest most hopeless things he had ever encountered. Dean who was covered in mud, and blood, and paint, with clothes soaked through from the drizzle outside.

“Get up.” John said softly, sitting down on the closed seat of the toilet and holding his hands out as though Dean would want to go to him. Dean shuddered, wanting nothing more than to get away from those hands, but he knew he needed help. Unwillingly, Dean struggled his way up off the tub and back onto his protesting feet. He fought hard not to limp as he took the few necessary steps towards where John was waiting. John turned Dean around in front of him and started working on the knots securing Dean’s arm in place. 

Neither of them were speaking, the only sound in the room was the flow of the water hitting the bathtub and the buzz of the light above them. Dean could feel the unpleasant tugging of the ropes around him as John loosened their hold. Every once in a while, John’s fingers would slip and Dean would have to repress a shudder as those hands made contact with his skin. He craved the soft feel of gentle hands, especially in light of how much his body pained at the moment, but he hated that John would be the one comforting him when this was finally over. 

He felt a final tug, a little harder than the others and then the ropes were coming free. Dean let out an unwilling whimper as his arm was released. While his chest felt free and like it could finally expand fully again, his arm felt like a small explosion attached to his side. The whole arm felt stiff from being tied against him in the same position for so long, and regaining the circulation in his hands meant pins and needles were stabbing their way relentlessly through the ends of his fingertips. Moving anything from his shoulder to his fingertips was extremely unpleasant. He tried very hard to stifle another whimper as he let his arm hang and tried not to move it again. 

John’s face did something close to a sympathetic smile before he turned Dean around to face him. He touched the boy’s cheek with the palm of his hand before starting to unbutton Dean’s ruined japama shirt. Dean tried to jerk away but John held him still, jarring Dean’s newly freed arm and causing him to gasp involuntarily at the fresh shot of needles that pricked across his skin. 

“Dean, be quiet. You’re going to wake up Sam.” John soothed. “It’s okay. We need to get you washed up so you can go get some rest.” 

“I can do it myself-”

“Can you?” John interrupted. Dean swallowed the rest of his sentence bitterly. The truth was he was exhausted and wrung out. If John left him in here alone he would probably curl up on the floor and end up with some sort of infection from having dirt in a cut somewhere. John reached over and turned off the tap of the bathtub, waiting for Dean to decide.

“Fine.” Dean stopped struggling and let his father ease his shirt off his shoulders and throw it in the black garbage bag he’d brought into the bathroom to dispose of all of Dean’s ruined clothes. He helped Dean strip the rest of his clothes off and maneuver, one ginger movement and burning step at a time, until Dean was in the tub of warm water. Dean didn’t resist as John cleaned the mud from his skin and hair under the warm water with a bar of creap hotel soap. He took a few splinters out of Dean’s hands with a pair of tweezers he kept in the first aid kit he always carried in his bag. 

Dean tried not to relax, but eventually the warm water and his father’s now careful hands taking care of the hurts on his body had him starting to drift somewhere close to sleep. He was responsive when John asked him to bow his head as water was poured over his hair or when John asked him if he was cold, but for the most part he just floated between conscious and apathy. 

When John was done washing the mud out of Dean’s hair, he half-lifted Dean out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel before setting him down on the side of the tub. Dean hung limp, letting John do what he wanted and no longer paying attention. He was tired, sore, and there was no point fighting. John knelt down in front of him and inspected the soles of his feet. Dean winced at the fresh burn of pain that skittered across the arches. John frowned and reached behind him on the counter for a jar of ointment. It hurt going on, but soon Dean’s feet were barely burning anymore. 

John handed Dean fresh pajamas and let him dress. Once Dean was dressed and clean, Dean and John rejoined the hotel room. Sam had rolled onto his back, his arms flung up wildly over his head, his sleeve bunched up to his elbow. Dean climbed back onto the bed and shivered down into the covers. Sam rolled over next to him, lining up comfortably against his side. 

“Wahtre you doin’?” Sam slurred. 

“Shh.” Dean whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Sam threw a lazy arm across Dean’s stomach and burrowed into his side. Dean let his cheek rest on top of Sam’s hair and closed his eyes, listening to Sam breathe. Sam felt safe, and solid against him. Dean held on tightly and tried not to cry as he fell asleep.


	2. Staying at Bobby's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Winchester's an asshole.  
> Dean's ten.  
> Sam's six.
> 
> Summary:
> 
> Sam usually picked up on more than Dean gave him credit for.
> 
> He was only six, sure, but he wasn't stupid. 
> 
> There was something wrong. There had been for a while. Dean sneaking back to bed wasn't new. It had been happening for a couple years now, but it was becoming unmistakably more common. Dean didn't cry anymore when he returned.

Sam usually picked up on more than Dean gave him credit for.

He was only six, sure, but he wasn't stupid. 

There was something wrong. There had been for a while. Dean sneaking back to bed wasn't new. It had been happening for a couple years now, but it was becoming unmistakably more common. Dean didn't cry anymore when he returned. He usually moved gingerly, and when Sam was asleep, would curl up behind him with his arm draped over Sam protectively. When Sam was awake, Dean would tug him close and usually drew patterns, words, or pictures on Sam's back with his fingers. Sam would quietly guess what was being drawn on him until one or both of them fell asleep. 

During the day, it was a different story alltogether. Dean shied away from touch in general now. Sam used to hang off him like a monkey when Dad wasn't around to tell him to act differently, but Sam found Dean's tollerance for being climbed had greatly deminished in the last little while. Dean never outright pushed him away, but he found ways to wriggle out of Sam's grasp. He'd been becoming more and more like dad. It was small things that had changed. Dean didn't smile as much, or laugh as much. He didn't let them break dad's rules as often or take Sam out as often as he used to. When he did let them venture out from wherever John had left them, Dean never cut loose or played with Sam like he had before. Instead he watched wearily around as Sam did whatever Sam was doing until they could go back to the hotel. 

It wasn't just Sam though, Dean shied away from dad too. Usually when John placed a hand on his shoulder, or something casual like that Dean would jerk away as though he'd been burned. Dean never bothered to find a gentle way to get away from dad like he did when he tried to escape from Sam. The only thing Dean seemed to like less than being touched by John was seeing John touch Sam. For whatever reason there was a scared protective possessiveness that flashed in Dean's eyes whenever John ruffled Sam's hair or helped him with his jacket. Dean never said anything, and John never acknowledged it, but Sam was aware. He didn't know _why _, Dean looked like he was waiting for glass to shatter when Dad was around, but as a result he had started to follow Dean's lead and he shied away from Dad too.__

____

____

Sam kicked the carpet of Bobby's hallway in frustration, pressing his ear to the door again. Bobby hadn't told Sam what he wanted to talk to Dean about. He'd taken one look at the two boys who'd been left abruptly on his doorstep, once again, before wearily telling Dean they needed to talk. Dean hadn't said a word in response, he'd just walked into Bobby's house and taken a seat in the library to wait. Bobby had quickly given Sam a snack, and then followed Dean into the room before closing the door with a soft click. Now Sam was waiting, trying to hear through the thick wood of the door. He could hear the faint hum of their voices, but not their exact words. For all his efforts, going around to peek in the window and listening under the door crack, he still had no idea what they were talking about. He sighed and sat down, defeated, across the hall from the door waiting for it to open.

When Dean emerged a while later he looked pale, but his jaw was locked like he was determined not to show a reaction. He'd started doing that more too, keeping his real emotions and reactions from showing on his face. Sam wasn't very good at reading the new blank expression yet, but more often than not he could tell that whatever stoniness Dean was trying to let him see wasn't the truth. He walked past Sam and started up the stairs without sparing him a glance. Sam frowned and looked questioningly up at Bobby who was watching thoughtfully as Dean climbed the stairs and then dissappeared out of sight. 

Dean flung himself down on the mattress of Bobby's spare room, staring up at the ceiling. He tried hard to keep his face and actions neutral, but he was alone and he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Giving up, he rolled over onto his stomach, hiding his face against his folded arms, and tried to take a few deep breaths as he felt his body shaking in silent tearless sobs. Dad had been so angry and he'd screwed up so badly this time. Whenever they were marooned at Bobby's it was Dean's fault. Or, at least John Winchester always made it felt that way. This time he'd drawn a symbol wrong on one of the doors to their motel room, last time he'd let Sam play with a stray cat and suffered his own allergic reaction in the process, the time before that he'd left Sam alone for ten minutes while he'd gone to the store... Really any of Dean's screw ups could result in Dad taking off without them at a moment's notice. It was Dad's way of making sure Dean was painfully aware that he wasn't good enough, wasn't strong enough, or smart enough to keep Sam safe. It was a way of revoking some of the trust John put in him to do what needed to be done and Dean knew it. John didn't have to say it out loud. 

Dean replayed Bobby's questions in his head. Bobby was upset, and he'd asked a lot of questions that Dean had tried to dodge. He hadn't said anything about John waking him up for training, or about how angry John had been the night before, but he still felt like he'd let something slip. It was so hard to keep everything off his face when Bobby asked questions about dad. How often was he away? Did he leave Sam and Dean alone often? For how long at a time? When was the last time they'd eaten something that wasn't out of a take out box? Where did Dean get the bruises on his wrists? Did he let Sam and Dean come with him hunting? Why did Dean look like he was going to be sick? 

Dean shook his head, trying to get Bobby's questions out of his mind. He'd tried his best, and he knew he hadn't said anything that was too telling. He was ashamed of himself and he was glad dad hadn't told Bobby any of the things he'd done to get himself and Sam left behind. He could deal with the training, he could deal with being John's hunting target, he could deal with John 'teaching' him how to fight by kicking him to the ground repeatedly until the anger was satisfied, but being left behind and knowing that he was the reason Sam was being left behind was almost unbearable. 

He couldn't even put into words why he wanted so badly to go with dad. Lately there had been less of the 'gentle' dad and more of the 'focused' dad. Dad called it focused anyway, Dean tended to think of it as danger. When dad was in a 'focused' mood, whatever training dad insisted they do was going to hurt ten times as much the next morning. Still, John was the closest thing they had to something reliable and he was their only connection to home. He knew Sam didn't remember home, but he did. Staying close to dad felt like a way to try to give Sam a taste of before. It wasn't enough, but it was all Dean could do. 

He laid his cheek against the pillow and closed his eyes. Bobby had asked a lot of questions about Dean. He'd seen the bruises on Dean's wrists and had forced Dean to show him. Dean had come up with a story about werewolves that he hoped was convincing, but Bobby had then started asking questions about how often Dean found himself in situations where he was a hostage in a werewolf den. It felt very much like he was being asked to defend himself without really knowing what the danger was. The weirdest part of the whole experience was that Dean wasn't even sure why he was afraid of Bobby finding out the truth. Bobby was more gentle than dad. He understood that people made mistakes. Regardless, he was sure that giving Bobby the wrong answer was going to end badly. Bobby had been so serious seated across from him that Dean had found himself almost shaking as he tried to come up with satisfactory replies. Replies that had enough details not to be obvious lies but that were vague enough not to make Bobby ask more questions. 

Dean felt exhausted and sore, emotionally and physically. 

He heard the door push open with a soft creek and then there was silence until the mattress gave a reluctant groan under the new added weight at the foot of the bed. Dean didn't open his eyes or move. He already knew it was Sam. Bobby was never that quiet when he moved around the house and the movement on the mattress was a Sam sized shift, not a Bobby sized shift. Sam had brought up their backpack and was unzipping it. He emptied the contents onto the bed and found what he was looking for. He grabbed the package and then scooted up to lay beside Dean. Sam was practically vibrating beside him. Dean peeked open one eye to look over at him. 

Sam liked coming to Bobby's. Dean knew it wasn't fair to consider that a betrayal, he liked Bobby too, but it felt like he should want to be with dad. That Sam should also want to be with dad. Still, he couldn't deny that when they spent time at Bobby's and Sam could spend the day running through the field or playing in the scrap yard he seemed more alive and more animated. Sam usually stayed silent and subdued, waiting for orders and following Dean and dad. He was obedient, at least as much as a normal kid, but that version of Sam didn't light up often. The only place Dean had really seen Sam look genuinely joyful was at Bobby's when he had the freedom to just exist outside in the sunshine. 

"Come on Dean." Sam said, tugging at his sleeve. "You're not asleep. I can see your eye open." 

"Go away Sammy." Dean mumbled, trying to sound annoyed but not quite managing. 

"Get up or I'm going to eat these alone." Sam said, dangling the bag of penny candy in front of Dean. Dean and Sam had scrounged up enough change between the two of them and the backseat of the Impala to afford it at the gas station on their way out of town that morning, before dad had dropped the news that he was leaving them with Bobby for an undetermined amount of time. Sam had always been good at detecting Dean's moods and had stowed the candy in their backpack for a more opportune moment. After finding out they were going to Bobby's, Dean always spent a long while staring out the window as though he was being driven to his own death. Sam found it dramatic, but if that was how Dean liked to spend his time Sam wasn't going to stop him. Sam had better things to do for the duration of the trip; like tell dad about the cartoons he'd watched at the hotel and tally up the different colours of cars they passed on the highway. 

Dean groaned and rolled onto his side, lazily righting himself and leaning against the headboard. Sam crossed his legs and sat beside him, opening the bag and putting it between them to share. 

"Why do you always get so upset? You like it here too." Sam said after a few minutes of companionable silence and chewing. 

"Stop it Sam." Dean warned. Sam rolled his eyes. Dean's shoulders were tense and drawn up. Sam sighed and worked his way under Dean's arm. Giving in, Dean opened up his arms and let Sam rest happily against his chest while he continued to munch on the candy from the bag. 

"What did uncle Bobby wantt?" Sam asked. 

"Don't worry about it Sam, it wasn't important." Dean shrugged. Sam frowned, pulling away to look at his face. Dean got several elbows to the stomach in the process, but didn't complain more than a grunt in protest. 

"You feel wrong." Sam said, studying him closely. "You're like at night." 

Dean knew vaguely what Sam was referring to. He felt very raw around the edges, the same weakness he usually could't fight off after dad would bring him in from training. Sam dropped the rest of the bag of candy on the nightstand and shoved Dean's shoulder, trying to get him to roll onto his side facing away. 

"Sam what-" 

"Move, kay?" Sam asked, pushing Dean's shoulder again. Dean let himself be prodded into the position Sam wanted. He felt Sam sidle up next to him, warm and content. Then he felt Sam's fingers tracing on his back through his t-shirt. Dean felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth as Sam mimicked the way Dean usually touched him. 

"You should try guessing this time. It's fun." Sam said softly. Dean closed his eyes. Between Sam not being able to spell and Dean not being able to feel half of what Sam was writing through the fabric of his shirt, Dean felt he was at a disadvantage. He could feel Sam laughing at him, but it just felt warm instead of making him feel upset. When it was clear Dean was nowhere near as adept at picking out the patterns as Sam was, Sam pushed up the back of Dean's shirt and drew directly on his skin. He chose easier pictures and slowed down, letting Dean feel the movements instead of rushing to finish his masterpiece of invisible scribbles. 

It felt as though Dean's failures were a hundred miles away. Feeling Sam's fingers against his skin and his feet tangled together with Sam's made the sharp edges of the world that kept tearing at him go rounded and smooth. Dean could feel his body relaxing and coming around to the idea of being here. Sam was here and Sam was happy. Maybe Dean could try to be happy for a little while too.


	3. Beaten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being happy with Sam didn't last long. It never did.
> 
> Dad never told Dean how long they were going to be staying in a particular town or hotel room and it was the same when he dropped them with one of his friends. Sometimes they found out from whoever they were staying with, but other times dad would drop them off telling Bobby or Pastor Jim he didn't know how long and thanks. Sometimes they stayed for a month, sometimes just for a night. Sam always hoped for the month, Dean always hoped for the over-nighter. Dean knew it was just because Sam liked the freedom to explore and play as he saw fit, and not because he really wanted dad to go away, but it still bothered Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam is six  
> Dean is 10

Being happy with Sam didn't last long. It never did. 

Dad never told Dean how long they were going to be staying in a particular town or hotel room and it was the same when he dropped them with one of his friends. Sometimes they found out from whoever they were staying with, but other times dad would drop them off telling Bobby or Pastor Jim he didn't know how long and thanks. Sometimes they stayed for a month, sometimes just for a night. Sam always hoped for the month, Dean always hoped for the over-nighter. Dean knew it was just because Sam liked the freedom to explore and play as he saw fit, and not because he really wanted dad to go away, but it still bothered Dean. 

They had been at Bobby's for a couple days and Dean was starting to fall into their old familiar routine of living at Bobby's. Breakfast, lunch, and diner were all a certainty and Dean didn't have to make decisions about what food to make. Sam would spend of the morning doing whatever he wanted instead of being told no with every other breath. After lunch, Bobby always did hunting stuff with them, but it was different than when Dad trained him. Bobby made it a game, sometimes getting Sam and Dean to do target practice cans with a rifle or letting them practice throwing knives into an old dart-board. Dad wanted, them to be able to do this stuff and so Dean did it as dutifully as he could, but it was hard not to laugh with Bobby and Sam when something foolish happened. Training was supposed to be serious, but after a while Dean usually loosened up and started grinning sheepishly along with them. As ashamed as it made him feel to admit it, Dean preferred learning it this way than to on the road. Lessons with John were more intense, less pleasant, and one hundred percent more solitary. 

Today, in the morning sun, Sam had chosen to play in the old cars lining the junk yard. Sometimes when Sam got too far away it made Dean anxious and he would consider calling him back over, but Sam wouldn't go far and Bobby was almost always there. Dean was leaning against the house, watching Sam as he crawled in and out of the abandoned cars in the field. Sam liked to pretend. Sometimes he looked through them hunting for 'treasure', though he'd only ever managed to score a melted doll head that had made Dean very uncomfortable and a roll of quarters. He still looked any time they came and found new abandoned cars in the lot. Dean sighed and relaxed against the house again. Dean knew it wasn't really even about playing, sometimes they were just somewhere Sam could retreat by himself for a while. Dean considered this Sam's space and didn't usually join him when he played in the junk yard. It wasn't unheard of for him to join, but he usually stayed nearby, watching Sam and picking at the ground. Today he didn't know what Sam's game was, but it involved jumping from one roof of a car to another and back again. 

Dean smiled and shook his head in amusement, pulling at the grass brushing against his pant-leg. Sometimes in the mornings while Sam was outside and Dean was sitting out in the yard, if Bobby wasn't busy he would take one of the cars in the lot apart with Dean. They'd pick one of the ones that was past hope and full of rust and dismantle it together. Dad sometimes let Dean help with the Impala, but he wasn't really allowed to touch the engine or take out the parts. When he worked on the car with dad, Dad would tell him which tools to pass and let him sit in the front seat while he made the repairs. As a result, Dean had already known a lot of the parts by name and could say which fluids went where and what they were for before he and Bobby had ever lifted a hood. With Bobby, he was allowed to touch and tinker and didn't have to worry about keeping the parts in working condition. Dean loved the impala, but he always jumped at the chance to take the wrecks in the salvage yard apart with Bobby. 

Sam ducked in between a couple cars and out of sight for a few seconds. Dean sat up straighter, his breath catching until he saw Sam's hair bounce back into view. Dean relaxed again and tipped his head back feeling the sun on his face. It was nice, just sitting outside on his own and not having to worry. Dad didn't like them to go out more than necessary without him and while he'd walk Sam down to the park when he was around, more often than not he wasn't around. Dean understood why, but it was hard. Saying no to Sam had always been hard, especially when Dean generally wanted to get out of the hotel too. Sam didn't understand, John and Dean had never told him the truth about what had happened to Mary and Dean didn't know when that was going to happen. For now, he just did what dad said and tried to make up believable excuses. 

He heard a car approaching down the road, and bit his lip. He could recognize the sound of that engine anywhere. Sam darted up through an open sunroof and looked towards at the road at almost the same time Dean was starting to stand up to call him. Sam's things weren't everywhere yet the way Sam normally invaded their spaces, but he'd had enough time to start peppering Bobby's house with his belongings. Sam was very tidy in general, but he liked his things to have temporary homes on shelves and in dresser drawers. Dean had never really understood the point because they never stayed long enough to really call somewhere home, but Sam liked it so Dean went along with it. Sam jogged over to him and they rounded the corner of the house together, seeing Bobby come out of the house and wave to John as he pulled in and parked. 

Dean waited beside Bobby, holding Sam's shoulders tightly as he practically vibrated on the spot. Dean didn't think he would run to the car, but it wasn't worth the risk. Sam was a little kid and sometimes they did dumb stuff without thinking. When John cut the engine Dean let go of Sam. Sam bolted towards the Impala. Dad was smiling when he got out of the car and swung Sam into the air, giving him a hug before setting him down on the ground again. 

As they walked towards Dean and Bobby, Sam was chattering on about something or other. Dean couldn't tell what it was about this time, but whenever dad was gone for more than a few hours Sam wanted to update dad on every last detail of his existence. Sam spent a lot more time staying near Dean and sometimes ducked dad's hugs the same way Dean did as though he was trying to copy Dean, but he was always ecstatic to see dad when he came back. Dean tended to give a short and to the point summary of the important pieces of information dad would need and then he would fall quietly in line. When dad and Sam reached Bobby and Dean, dad ruffled a hand through Dean's hair, with a gentle 'hey Dean', which Dean greeted with a small smile, before John turned to Bobby and thanking him for keeping the boys. 

"Why don't you go get your things Sam, Dean." Bobby said in response. His voice was controlled and even, but there was some sort of tension beneath the surface. "I need to talk to your daddy." 

Sam frowned, looking between the two adults. Bobby was guarded and not quite angry. Dean could feel a cold sweat erupting over his skin and he laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, glancing curiously over his own as he steered Sam into the house. He and Sam quickly went through the rooms and collected their backpack full of items that Sam had started moving in. By now Dean knew all of Sam's places, he didn't have to ask where or what he was looking for. Dean was in the living room getting one of Sam's books from one of the bookcases when he heard the yelling outside. It sounded like dad and Bobby were arguing, but he couldn't fathom why. He walked out into the hallway and met Sam, frozen midway down the stairs with some of his clothes bunched into his arms to add to the backpack Dean was carrying. 

"Dean?" Sam asked, nodding towards the door. 

"I don't know." Dean replied. "Get your stuff in the bag Sammy." 

Sam jumped the last few steps and dumped his clothes into the bag Dean was holding open for him. Following Dean as he cautiously approached the front door and let it swing open. He reached back and Sam took his hand immediately, following him out of the house, down the front steps and onto the gravel. They were in sight and he could hear dad and Bobby now, but neither of the adults noticed the two boys.

"I know what I saw John and he couldn't come up with an explanation-"

"It's none of your business." John shot back in response, cutting Bobby off and taking a step towards him, his fists were clenched. 

"Like hell. You leave them here. It's my business." Bobby yelled back, not stepping back from John, but not taking his own step forward. He wasn't afraid of John Winchester, but he didn't really want to fight him either, especially with the boys not far away. 

"They're my sons Bobby. Not yours." 

"He's terrified of telling the truth John, whatever it is, so what actually-?" Bobby caught sight of them behind John in the driveway and abruptly came to a stop. He took a deep breath before he said something Dean couldn't hear. Sam was behind him, almost like he was trying to hide in Dean's shadow. John turned, following Bobby's line of sight. 

"Car." John said curtly to Dean, who nodded jerkily and pulled an unwilling Sam towards the Impala. 

"-not over John-" Dean heard Bobby utter as he walked away. He was biting his lip. He wasn't sure, but he had an idea what the argument had been about. He shuddered involuntarily and helped Sam up into the backseat, sliding their backpack onto the backseat in behind Sam and then climbing in himself. Sam was eyeing the door latch contemplatively, shooting a glance back to Bobby and Dad. Dean reached out and grabbed his wrist, startling Sam, but saving Dean the hassle of having to go round him up if he decided to run for it. Sam was curious. He always wanted to know what was going on around them and hated being told to go wait in the dark. Dean understood, he didn't like it either, but dad had his reasons and it was best to obey his orders. 

"Don't Sam." Dean said, pushing the backpack to the floor near their feet with his other hand and freeing up the backseat to stretch out on. He managed to maneuver Sam over away from the door. "Don't disobey dad. He'll get mad. Just wait here with me." 

Sam sighed in frustration and let himself go heavy against Dean's side. Dean ran an affectionate hand through Sam's hair and tried to glance out the window to see, but Dad and Bobby were blocked from his view by the Impala and he didn't stretch because he didn't want Sam to know he was looking. 

Dad slammed the door of the Impala behind him and jerked the key into the ignition. They squealed out of Bobby's yard without dad saying a word to either boy. Sam had grabbed some of his toys from the backpack and was occupied curled into Dean's side. Dad glared at him in the rear-view mirror and Dean felt his mouth go dry. He didn't know what was coming. Whatever it was, he wasn't looking forward to it. His arm tightened around Sam, but he stayed quiet, waiting for the next hotel room. 

*** 

It was late when Sam woke up in the hotel room. He knew he was alone even before opening his eyes because he couldn't hear the little sighs Dean sometimes made when he slept and dad's snoring was absent. The room was the way they usually left it. Sam's stuff on his bed, the knife that dad insisted he have near him for whatever reason set right on top. Sam looked over to the window and found, as he expected, it was still dark. 

He had no idea when dad and Dean would come back. He had no idea where they'd gone. Dean always told him it wasn't his business, or played it off asking 'wouldn't you like to know', but he never told Sam. Sam knew it wasn't fun, whatever Dean was off doing. He always came back more quiet than usual, and even though he didn't cry anymore, his eyes were always far away and cold for a while until Sam could bring him back around to normal. Sam sat up, pushing the covers back and sitting up on his knees to look out the crack in the curtain of the window. 

The parking lot was illuminated by a solitary humming street light whose companion had burnt out long before the Winchesters had checked into a motel with dusty dank electric blue curtains and a colour pallet to match. The furniture and decor in the hotel room seemed dated and had that musty smell furniture picked up after years abandoned in storage, but it was the first hotel dad had found after nightfall and the beds were fresh and clean. The Impala was still parked outside and the trees beside the road were swinging back and forth gently in the breeze. It looked calm and peaceful, but there was no sign of John or Dean. Sam flopped back down and looked up at the ceiling, thinking idly about that morning. 

Dean had woken up before him and had already been outside when he'd gone into Bobby's yard. Dean had been in an amazing mood. He'd been affectionate and happy. Not that he wasn't normally affectionate with Sam; he usually let Sam grab or hug him whenever Sam wanted, but Dean was always the first to pull away. That morning in the yard, Dean hadn't been so stiff and tense. As much as Sam loved dad, he liked to pretend when they visited Bobby that they lived there. Dean always seemed more relaxed and Sam liked to pretend it was permanent, even if it was only going to be permanent for a little while. He just wanted Dean to be happy, and he spent a lot of time not being happy. He tried to hide it, but Sam knew. 

He was starting to drift off thinking about the warm sunlight of the morning and so he sat up, quickly rubbing his eyes and trying to find something interesting to keep himself occupied until Dean came back. If Dean came back upset tonight, Sam wanted to be there. Sam knew that Dean always wanted to cuddle when he came back in the middle of the night, even when Sam wasn't awake, but he wanted to make sure Dean was okay. He had gotten quieter and quieter as the day had gone on, until he'd slipped into bed with Sam looking pale faced and uncomfortable. Sam hadn't pushed because he knew Dean wouldn't tell him what was wrong anyway. Just like he knew Dean probably wouldn't tell him where he'd been tonight even if Sam did manage to stay awake. Still, Sam wanted to be there and conscious. Sometimes when Dean came back he was shaking, sometimes he was silent and would hold Sam until it was almost too tight to breathe, sometimes he just pressed his face into Sam's collar bone and pretended he was asleep. Whatever happened, Sam wanted to be awake.

He managed to occupy himself by drawing in one of Dean's old notebooks lying down on his stomach under the covers with a small flashlight Dean had tucked into Sam's bag once, showing him where it was and saying 'just in case'. Sam thought it was probably for emergencies, but he figured this was close enough. He was under the covers, listening for any sounds so that he could pretend to be asleep, but really he was drawing some symbols he'd seen in one of uncle Bobby's books from the top shelf. Sam hadn't been able to read the book they were in, he was still only learning to read and it had had a lot of very long words that Sam hadn't recognized. He thought that the symbols were cool though, so he'd spent a while leafing through it. 

After Sam had managed to fill a couple of the notebook's pages, he heard footsteps and murmurings outside before the key was in the lock. He pushed the notebook under his pillow and clicked his flashlight off. He fell onto his pillow with his eyes closed just as the door swung open and Dean came inside, followed by dad. Sam peeked out, knowing they wouldn't see his eyes open in the dark. Dean walking gingerly, as though he was in pain. Dad walked around him once inside and he went over to his bed, retrieving something from his bag. He went back to the door, where Dean was leaning against the wall for support. He handed Dean something and murmured a few words quietly. Dean nodded and winced as he reached out to take whatever John was handing him. 

"Go get cleaned up. Get some sleep. I'll be back in the morning." John said, just loudly enough for Sam to be able to pick out the words. Dean didn't reply, just limped across the room to the bathroom, went inside, and closed the door. It locked with a sharp click behind him. John sighed watching after him, and then leg again through the motel door. Sam sat up, looking between the bathroom door and the door leading to the parking lot. When he was sure John wouldn't come back, he got out of bed and skittered over to the bathroom door knocking on it quietly. Something was wrong. Sam could feel it. Something was definitely wrong. Dad never left again when he and Dean came back. Dean had never looked like he was in pain, not like that. 

"Dean?" Sam half-whispered. All movement ceased within he bathroom and Sam counted the seconds waiting for Dean to reply. When he didn't speak or open the door, Sam tried again. "Dean, open the door." 

"Go back to sleep, Sammy." Dean called through the door after another long pause. 

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, tapping on the door with his open palm. 

"Yes. Go back to sleep." Dean replied. Sam could hear a thickness in Dean's voice that he was trying to cover. Dean was crying. 

"Let me in." Sam said, kicking the door gently with his foot. "Where's dad going?" 

"No. I don't know, Sam." Dean groaned. "Go away or I'm sleeping in here."

Sam let out an unhappy sigh, frowned and went back to the bed. He sat on the edge, waiting for Dean. He knew he wouldn't go back to sleep now, but he wanted Dean to come out so he had to be patient. 

*** 

Almost certain that Sam had retreated, Dean uncurled his arms from around himself. He wanted to roll up into a ball, lay there, and hurt. He couldn't though. Dad had told him to clean up. Sam was waiting out in the bedroom. He needed to start working. 

He was shaking and sore, but he worked quietly to disrobe himself and started inspecting his injuries in the mirror and on his skin. He hurt, but dad had known what he was doing. He would have a lot of dark bruises and he probably wouldn't take his shirt off in front of anyone for a few weeks at least, but it would heal. His nose had stopped bleeding and, though it was aching, it didn't look broken. He touched the dried blood on his face and a quiet whimper escaped him. His face was already starting to bruise where John's fist had connected. He could feel panic starting to settle deep in his stomach. He had no idea how he would explain that to Sam. Everything else he could cover or explain away, but that...

He looked away from the mirror quickly, trying to suppress the panic bubbling inside him. He focused instead on the other parts of his body. After the bruising on his face, the most annoying part would be his ankle. It was throbbing painfully where he had twisted it as he'd fallen to the ground under John's assault. 

John had never beaten him before. Dean had been hunted, and shot with paint-ball guns, used as target practice, told to dodge projectiles, and had had John easily best him in sparing matches, but John had never taken him outside and simply beaten him. He touched the fading bruises on his wrists, the reasons he was here in this bathroom, and heard his father's angry voice still ringing in his ears.

"You told Bobby some story about werewolves, Dean." John had said, tossing him into a clearing not far into the woods in back of the hotel. Dean had scrambled back, trying to back away. 

"It was- He kept asking- I didn't know what to say- Please." Dean had stammered, trying to escape from the cold anger John was radiating.

"Bullshit Dean." John had replied, hitting him for the first time, punching him in the face. Dean had staggered and felt something warm running down his lip. "You find something better than something that's going to make him ask more questions." 

John had hit him again. Dean had felt a sickening crack when his neck had snapped to the side with the force of John's blow. He was swaying on his feet. He managed to shake his head clear and stay upright, his consciousness swimming for a few seconds as John worked to undo his belt. Dean had backed up, raising his hands, and caught his foot on a root, twisting the ankle his falling hard to the ground.

Dean shook himself, coming back to the present. He was locked in the bathroom. He was alone. He was safe. He turned on the water of the sink, and got to work washing the dirt and blood away. He didn't have many cuts, just a few welts from the belt and a few scratches on his belly from where his shirt had ridden up as he'd laid face-down on the ground. His nosebleed had meant business and had made up for quantity with quality. 

Usually when John woke him in the night, Dean was dealing with John's pent up energy. Tonight, he'd struggled against his father's unrelenting wrath. Every movement of resistance had been met with renewed force and anger from John's fists. John had hit him, and punched him, and hissed things Dean would never be able to un-hear. Stupid. Weak. Not to be trusted. He'd hit Dean hard with the belt he'd taken off as they'd entered the woods. As the heavy leather and buckle had assaulted his back, he'd never seen dad's face so blank and calm. Dean had begged John to stop until he couldn't breathe or cry anymore. Finally, Dean had gone limp, letting John's belt crack down over his back with the heavy thump of the buckle bruising his skin. Dean going limp hadn't mattered, though. Dad hadn't stopped, had hardly even noticed. Dean had focused on a few bugs crawling on the ground a few feet from his face and let his body jolt against the dirt. When John was finished, Dean had limped quietly home in front of his father. He'd tried his hardest to walk as normally as he could on his rapidly swelling ankle. John hadn't helped him up and he hadn't rushed him. This pathetic walk back to the hotel was just as important as the beating John had just given him. 

He looked down at his ankle and knew there was really nothing he could do for that on his own. There was no ice machine or bags of ice for sale at the motel and he couldn't walk far enough to find a gas station. He would just have to leave it and hope the swelling didn't get too bad. He reached out and took the bottle of pills dad had handed him before he'd left. They were in a prescription bottle, but the label had been peeled off. Dad had said they were painkillers. Dad had told him to take one and wait. If he didn't start to feel better he could take another one two hours later. He took out two, turning the pills over in his hand before he swallowed them both defiantly. He knew taking too much medication could make him sick, but he didn't care. His body felt like it was throbbing and he didn't want to have to come back. 

He pulled on his dirty clothes, having forgotten to bring new ones in with him, and looked around the room. He cleaned up the same way he normally did when he needed to hide things from Sam. He quickly erased all traces of blood and dirt he could see with the stained through towel. He folded the towel and buried it beneath the other dirty ones so that Sam wouldn't see. When he was done he looked at his face again in the mirror, finally deciding to deal with the fact that his face was going to give him away the moment he stepped out into the room. He looked around for a source of inspiration and came up empty. He decided making a loud noise and swearing he'd bashed his face off the bathroom counter was as good as it was going to get. He slammed the counter loudly and swore at the same time, trying to make a noise that Sam would identify as the cause of the injury. He heard Sam hit the door almost on cue. 

"Dean-" 

"I'm fine, just fell." Dean said, taking a few seconds before pulling the door open with his hand touching his face. Sam pulled his hand away, looking him over. "Tripped, hit my face on the counter." 

Sam eyed him wearily for a few seconds before seeming to accept what he'd said, though he still looked suspicious. Sam started over to the bed Sam had been sleeping in and Dean followed, flicking off the light to the bathroom and going over to his bag. It was dark in the room, he knew Sam couldn't see as he stripped off his dirty clothes and changed into fresh pajamas. He scooted up near Sam and under the covers, feeling the soft mattress below them pulling him down into comfort. He left a small groan as he leaned back against the pillows next to Sam on his back. Sam was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow and looking at Dean's face. He could just make it out in the shadows of the room. Dean's lips were a thin line and his eyebrows were tightly knit. Sam could tell he was in pain. 

"Stop staring at me." Dean muttered, not opening his eyes. 

"I'm not." Sam laughed, despite his worry.

"Liar." Dean said affectionately, turning his chin to look at Sam. "Yep, that's what I thought." 

"What happened to your ankle?" Sam asked. 

"Twisted it." Dean evaded with a nervous laugh. It was uncharacteristic, Dean usually tried to act like a grown up and like nothing made him nervous. Sam sighed in frustration and leaned back on his own pillow. Dean was in a weird mood. He seemed scared, but like he was trying to hide it for some reason. Usually he just fell into Sam and let things relax. After a few minutes of heavy silence, he felt Dean's fingers lace with his own. Sam turned his head to look at Dean's face. He had his eyes closed, but he was close to crying. His bottom lip was quivering caught between his teeth as he tried to stifle a whimper. 

"Dean." 

"Shh Sam." Dean said, squeezing his hand gently. The blankets were warm and it smelled like Sam in the bed. Dean fought to open his eyes and look over at his little brother. Sam was still watching him, concern etched over his face. "Sit up ." 

Sam did, and Dean pushed himself up, struggling to suppress a wince of pain. He could feel the painkillers starting to take effect, but they didn't take away all of the ache. He leaned against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him. Sam was sitting on his knees, facing him. He pushed Sam's bangs back with shaking fingers, and touched Sam's face where his own was hurting. He could feel Sam's breath on his fingertips, warm and soothing. He brushed his fingers down Sam's cheek, and then let his hand drop lamely into his own lap. He didn't know how to explain to Sam what he wanted, he didn't even understand himself why he wanted what he wanted. Everywhere that hurt on his body made him want to check Sam, make sure Sam was okay. He knew Sam was fine, that he wasn't hurt any worse than a scrape or bruise from walking into something, but he needed to check. His chest felt tight and it was difficult to force himself to breathe. 

"Take off your shirt, Sam?" Dean asked. Sam raised an eyebrow in question, not obeying straight away. Dean's voice was tight, like he was concentrating all his fear on Sam.

"Why?" Sam questioned curiously, playing with the hem of his shirt. He already knew he would, because it was Dean asking, but he wanted to push his luck one last time and see if Dean would tell him the truth. He wasn't surprised when Dean avoided the question.

"Just do it, ok?" Dean said, biting his lip. His face was full of raw desperation. Sam nodded and slipped his arms out of the sleep-shirt. He pulled it off over his head, dropping it into his lap. Dean pulled him forward until he was settling sideways into the space between Dean's legs, leaning his shoulder against his brother's chest. Dean softly ran his hands over Sam's skin, feeling the younger boy jump when he reached Sam's sides. Sam was ticklish if you caught him off guard. He could tense up and resist it, but if you got him when he wasn't expecting it he always let loose a series of high pitched squeals of laughter. Dean mostly paid attention to Sam's back and arms. He soothed the places on Sam where his own pain was the strongest, feeling Sam shiver ever so often. After a while, Dean had no idea how long, he heard Sam sigh and go heavy against him, relaxed. 

Dean ran a hand through Sam's hair, hugging him close. Sam tucked his face into Dean's neck and his eyes had slipped closed, finally falling prey to the sleep that had been hunting him since before he'd taken out the notebook. Sam was heavy, and warm against him and dad was somewhere and wouldn't be back. He was safe. They both were. 

He gently shifted Sam so that he was laying down on his side, but Sam grabbed Dean's shirt as he pulled away. He made a small noise of discontent. 

"S'ok Sam." Dean murmured, pushing the pillow under Sam's head and pulling the covers up around them. He laid down on his side, careful of his ankle as he rolled. The pain was dull and distant now, still present but disconnected. Dean wondered vaguely what kind of Tylenol or Advil dad had left him because it was definitely working as he tucked his knees up behind Sam. He felt Sam settle back against his chest and tried to relax against the mattress again. He wrapped an arm around Sam, feeling Sam press into his touch where his hand rested across Sam's ribs. He rested his forehead in between Sam's shoulder blades, closing his eyes and trying to fall asleep too. 

**

It didn't work. He was still awake in the morning, having drifted in and out of consciousness ever so often, but never falling into the deep sleep his body needed. His pain killers were starting to wear off and the numb aching was starting to revert back to real pain. He could see the change in the light when it started to get just barely brighter out. He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, trying to hide his face in the pillow.

If he could just get a couple hours sleep he'd be able to stay awake long enough to get on the road. Sam shuffled closer to his side, his bare skin warm and sticky with a thin sheen of sweat. Sam was like sleeping with a furnace sometimes and Dean usually didn't mind, but it was hot and sticky in the motel and he was so uncomfortable already. He pushed the blankets down as far as he could and rolled onto his back, gasping in pain as he did so and feeling his eyes well up. He bit the inside of his cheek against the burning sensations and throbbing sensations that were currently his reality. He tried to think of ways he would be careful throughout the coming day, and then panic flooded his chest.

The Impala. How was he going to spend the day pressed against the hot seats of the Impala? He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the aches and pains. He would just have to deal with the Impala. Hopefully he would pass out from exhaustion and it wouldn't be a problem. 

The sun seemed to rise quickly once it broke past the horizon and Dean found himself sitting up to start packing long before he wanted to. Sam was still fast asleep and Dean eased himself away from his brother's side, carefully making his way to the bathroom. It was hard to walk, his ankle hurt so badly as his feet moved across the floor. The bottle John had left with him the night before was still sitting on the counter. He fumbled as he tried to open it, struggling to apply the right pressure to undo the child lock. He took two again, and then took a few extra from the bottle. He was worried John would take them away and, as uncomfortable as he'd been the night before, he couldn't imagine trying to get through today without some of the relief the pills had brought him. 

Dean came back to the room after using the washroom and taking a quick shower. He dressed and slipped the stolen pills in his pocket before starting to gather his and Sam's belongings from around the room and packing their bags. Dad's bag was always the easiest. He rarely took anything out except to change his clothes. Dean put the bottle of pills from the bathroom back into dad's bag and then woke Sam to get him ready for the day. 

Sam was grumpy, but not exactly fighting him. He was definitely resisting morning as Dean threw him a towel and a bottle of shampoo and told him to hurry up in the shower. He knew Sam was as tired as he was. He would probably sleep in the car with Dean on the way to their next destination. When Sam was showered and dressed they brushed their teeth. Dean looked through their bags of groceries dad had dropped in the fridge to see what there was for breakfast. There wasn't much to choose from, but he managed to find them both something. 

Dad came back not long after eight and loaded the car with their bags. He didn't say anything about where he'd been, though he smelled heavily of cigarettes and beer. Once dad had done a final sweep of the room, Sam and Dean piled into the backseat of the Impala. It was Sam who fell asleep first, tucked into Dean's side with the blanket that lived on the floor of the Impala's backseat carefully tucked around himself and Dean. They had barely pulled out of the hotel and Sam was already snoring gently against Dean's chest. John glanced at them as he pulled onto the highway, catching Dean's eye in the rear-view. 

"You take more of those pills this morning?" John asked quietly, as not to wake Sam.

"Yes sir." Dean replied, trying not to let his voice waver. 

"Do they help?" John asked, his face was serious and his eyes were gentle. John's concern after nights when he'd taken Dean from bed always threw Dean off. It made him want to curl up in John's lap like he used to when he was really little, younger than Sam even. Dean shook his head, trying to clear it of the memories from so long ago, back before the fire, and the hotels, and mom. "No?"

"Yes sir, they helped." Dean corrected himself quickly. John nodded, focusing on the road again for a few moments before he spoke again.

"How many did you take this morning?" John asked. 

"Two." 

"I know how many there were in the bottle Dean." John said, shaking his head before repeating himself. "How many did you take?" 

"They're in my pocket. I only swallowed two." Dean confessed immediately. He knew if he was going to get in trouble, the truth would be the much more preferable option. John nodded. He didn't look angry to Dean, just worried. John believed him though, Dean usually told him the truth when confronted with a direct question and he had no reason to lie since he knew he was already caught.

"You can take another one around two. For now, you're tired Dean, and we're going to be driving a long time. You should get some sleep too." 

Dean blinked at him for a moment before nodding his head. John looked back to the road ahead of him and Dean leaned his cheek against the top of Sam's head. After a while his eyes fell closed and he drifted off to sleep, going numb to how uncomfortable he was in his own skin. 

John sighed and pushed a cassette into the stereo, trying to distract himself from looking back at Dean's small hurt frame curled around Sam. John wasn't angry about the pills. He knew he'd lost control the night before and that Dean needed them. Dean would heal, but John regretted the worst of it. Seeing Dean's face swollen and bruised was a reminder of just how dangerous it had been. He wanted to keep the boys safe. He needed to do better. He would do better. Dean sometimes screwed up and he needed to be put in his place, but John couldn't risk losing control again. 

Years later John would wonder if he'd ever had any control to being with.


	4. He’ll die if you don’t.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's 8.  
> Dean's 12.  
> John Winchester's still an asshole. 
> 
> Takes place a few days after Sam finds out the truth about his mother's death and John's job.

Dean closed his eyes, knitting his eyebrows together and trying to figure out how to make things better. Sam was almost rolled into a ball, his shoulder hitching as he silently tried to work out how to breathe normally again. He wasn't crying anymore, but he hadn't relaxed any either. He was pointed towards the wall, away from the offending artifact on the nightstand. Dean was sitting on the bed beside Sam's legs, wondering how to change reality. He knew, deep down in his stomach somewhere, that there was nothing he could do, but he wanted so badly to fix it. 

It had been two days since dad had missed Christmas and Sam had found the journal and read the truth. The journal had sat untouched on the nightstand, both boys almost treating it as though it was a bomb that threatened to go off if not left alone. Sam had spent the two days going from being terrified to fine and back again more times than Dean could count. 

Dad still hadn’t shown up, Sam was a wreck, and Dean wanted to make it better but didn’t know how. Dad would be furious when he found out Dean had told Sam the truth about what was in the journal. He knew he'd be in trouble for coming clean about the supernatural, but there hadn't really been a choice except to tell Sam the truth. It's not like Dean could deny everything John had written in the journal after Sam had read as much of it as he had. Sam was too smart to buy any lies about it being anything other than what it really was; all true. 

"Is that where you go with dad?" Sam asked suddenly, when Dean had started to wonder about whether or not Sam had managed to drift off. Dean jumped at the sound of Sam's voice. 

"What?" Dean asked. He was sitting against the headboard, staring down at the nightstand and trying hard to will dad’s journal out of existence. 

"Those nights you come back almost in the morning." Sam mumbled, rolling over to look up at him. "He takes you with him to hunt things doesn't he? That’s why you get scared."

Dean didn't reply right away. There was only so much truth he was willing to let Sam have. When John took Dean from the room in the middle of the night he was usually the target, but he couldn’t tell that to Sam. Dad called it training, so Dean decided he would go with that lie. That would be easiest. Their dad was a hero, just like Dean had said. He had his faults, and Dean was more afraid of him than he wanted to admit, but John was still a hero. That was all Sam needed to know. 

"He doesn't take me hunting. It's training." Dean said with a quick half-smile. "Sometimes he takes me out training."

Sam thought it over quietly and Dean thought that maybe that was the end of it. Maybe, for once, Sam wouldn't keep pushing. Maybe, for once, the reason Dean gave him would be enough and Sam wouldn't keep looking for more information. Dean knew hoping for an easy out was foolish with Sam. Sam always wanted details and was used to having to fight to get them.

"Why doesn't he take me?" Sam asked sounding dejected and taking Dean by surprise with the question. He’d expected to be pushed with Sam, but he hadn’t considered the idea that Sam would be jealous. 

The last thing Dean ever wanted was for John to start hunting Sam. The very idea of Sam running, trying to escape while John stalked him and eventually caught him...the idea of Sam’s skin bloody and bruised after falling...the idea of Sam feeling scared and small facedown in the mud with John’s boot grinding firmly into his back… 

It made Dean feel sick and feverish. A cold shiver ran through him and his fingertips felt like ice. He would rather die than let dad start hunting Sam too. 

"Probably thinks your too..." Dean cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice even. He had to save face in front of Sam, so he decided to be a jerk. It was easier than trying to find something kind to say and he wanted to protect Sam and make him stop asking questions. "...weak or something. You're pretty scrawny." 

Sam pouted at him, sticking out his lip and turning away again. 

"Whatever Dean." Sam said, pulling the blanket up over himself. Dean heaved a heavy sigh and turned out the lights in the room before sitting back down on the edge of the bed beside Sam.

"Look. Dad probably just wants to keep you from having to deal with it." He said after a while, trying to make amends. He didn’t really like to be a dick to Sam, he just did it sometimes when he wanted to avoid hard questions and conversations. It usually made Sam shut up about whatever they were talking about, but he didn’t really like that it made Sam stay quiet afterwards.

"You deal with it." Sam muttered back. He sounded miserable. He’d found out his entire life had a big stripe of evil painted right down the center and the information was still so new and painful. Something had killed his mom, it hadn’t been an accident. Dad’s job was a lie. Even Dean had kept it from him. Evil was real and it was everywhere. There was no going back. 

"It's my job to look out for you." Dean shrugged. "Always has been. How am I supposed to do that if I don't know what's out there?" 

Dean couldn’t read Sam’s expressions very well in the darkness. Some of the light spilling in from a crack in the curtain made it possible to make out Sam’s mouth, and nose, but not the details of his features. Dean reached down, sliding the back of his hand to Sam’s cheek for a second before pulling away and dropping his hand back to his sides. Sam made a discontented noise and resituated himself so that his head was in Dean’s lap, his cheek pressed against Dean’s thigh. It was only a few seconds before he felt Dean’s fingers rake through his hair, gentle and careful. 

“They could still get us.” Sam whispered after a while, looping back to the same panicked track he’d been murmuring on and off all day. “They got mom, Dean. Monsters got mom and they could get us too.” 

“I already said the other night that they wouldn’t Sam.” Dean sighed. “I promise. They won’t get us.” 

Sam didn’t reply and they fell into an uneasy silence. They both knew that Sam didn’t believe him, but Dean needed it to be true and Sam was already too freaked out to argue. Dean could feel his own heart beating fast in his chest at the thought of monsters trying to hurt Sam. Monsters couldn’t hurt Sam. They just couldn't. He knew they were safe right now. He knew that dad protected the rooms he left them in and Dean was following all the rules the right ways. Things were different now though. Sam knew the truth and Dean knew dad was going to want to start training him to hunt. The idea of Sam anywhere near the things their father hunted made Dean’s skin feel tight. What would he do if something happened to Sam? 

Knowing any further attempt at questions at the moment would probably make Dean spiky and defensive, Sam sighed and let the silence stretch on. He tried to get comfortable and curled his fingers into the loose fabric of Dean’s sleep pants, fisting the loose fabric covering Dean’s legs. Dean stroked his unoccupied hand down Sam’s shoulder. He had no idea if Sam was upset, angry, scared, or just clingy, but Sam seemed to be starting to go heavy against him and Dean didn’t really mind the drool he would find on his clothes in the morning. 

Sam dropped off fairly quickly wrapped around Dean, but Dean didn’t sleep very well. His back was uncomfortable against the headboard and Sam’s head resting on his thigh was causing him a slight ache in his muscle, but he didn’t move. He liked the idea of Sam curled around him, using him for comfort the same way he needed Sam sometimes. 

Sam didn’t wake up as the night passed by, but ever so often he flinched and made noises at times like he was having nightmares. Dean gave up trying to sleep, instead concentrating on keeping Sam comfortable and feeling safe. He couldn’t get rid of all the monsters, or make their lives any different than they were, but he could sit there and hold Sam while he slept. When Dean felt Sam hitch, he would gently soothe the back of Sam’s neck with his fingertips, tiredly murmuring something or other to try and ease Sam back away from consciousness. 

***

Dean was still awake when he heard John’s boots outside the hotel room. He rubbed his face to clear any of the yellow sleep from the corners of his eyes and watched John push open the door. He took a fortifying breath, hoping this wasn’t one of the nights where John would want to blow off steam. If it was going to be one of those nights, Dean was fairly sure he would just lay there and take whatever John had to throw at him. He didn’t have the energy or resolve to try to run or fight. 

Dad was quiet as he moved into the room, putting his pack down on the table and slipping his boots off carefully. He clicked one of the lamps on to illuminate his path. He stopped when he saw Dean sitting up, watching him silently from the mattress. His hand was tangled in Sam’s hair, Sammy was clinging to him as though terrified in his sleep, and Dean looked exhausted. John crossed the room and leaned in close to talk to him. 

“What are you doing up?” John asked quietly. Dean shrugged, looking down at Sam in his lap and loosening his hold on his brother a bit. John looked at Sam’s face, still sticky with dried tears and a tell-tale red nose. “Dean?” 

Dean looked up at John again, but John’s attention had already averted to the journal lying on the bedside table. His eyes flicked between Dean and the journal a few times before his gaze rested on Sam. 

“What happened?” John asked, already suspecting he knew the answer. Dean shrugged again, trying to delay as much as possible. He could see John reach out towards him and he flinched away, but instead John’s hand rested on his shoulder, rubbing gently. “It’s okay Dean. What happened?” 

Dean felt a shuddery breath rip from his chest and suddenly he was telling John everything in a panicked rush. His voice was higher than usual, urgent and terrified as he failed to hold back all the anguished thoughts that were swirling around inside him Sam had found the journal and read it. Dean had tried to lie and tell him it wasn’t true, but Sam hadn’t believed him and had pushed back for the truth. Now Sam knew everything and it was his, Dean’s, fault and he was sorry but knew that didn’t matter because now Sammy knew and the monsters were going to get th -

“Dean, Dean listen to me. Stop. It’s okay. Dean stop.” John said softly, giving him a small shake with the hand on Dean’s shoulder while Dean’s words tumbled out quick and unfiltered. Dean bit his bottom lip between his teeth forcing himself to stop speaking. He searched John’s face frantically for the anger and reproach he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t there. Instead John looked empathetic and a little bit softer in the features, like Dean remembered from when he was really small and Sammy was still in a crib. 

Dad reached out across Dean, gently moving Sam so that he was lying against his own pillow and then pulled the blankets back to let Dean into the warmth of the covers. Dean scooted under and felt John smooth the heavy comforter down around him. He was shaking against the pillow, but he already felt much more comfortable and far closer to sleep than he had been all night. John pressed a quick kiss to his temple.

“Get some sleep Dean. You’re both safe. Nothing’s going to get you if you follow your orders like always.” John murmured. He stood up and crossed the room rummaging in his bag for some fresh clothes. Dean watched him as he went, seeing his father gather what he needed to get ready for bed. Before clicking off the light, John cast another look Dean’s way and saw his eyes still open. “Close your eyes Dean. Go to sleep.” 

John flipped the switch on the lamp and headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a click. The only light in the room came from the numbers on the microwave and the light from the gap underneath the bathroom door. Dean closed his eyes, his hands holding the blanket tightly. Dean spent a lot of time trying to pretend that they were safe and that the world wasn’t as terrifying as it was. Monster’s could get Sam. It was an idea that had always scared him, ever since that night dad had pushed Sam into his arms and told him to run. He shivered and rolled onto his side, reaching out and pulling a lightly snoring Sam towards him. Sam moved easily enough and he tucked Sam against his chest, wrapped up in both his arms. 

***

Uncharacteristically, dad had stayed with them at the motel for the day. It had Sam tripping up, asking Dean for permission to do things before realizing dad was there and changing his tactics. Even though Sam was off-balance, Dean felt somewhat grateful for John sticking close. He felt like someone had taken a cheese grater to his emotions and he didn’t mind the extra time to nap instead of watching Sam. He spent the morning pretending to be annoyed with Sam’s cartoons while secretly watching them over Sam’s head. 

Dad spent most of the day sitting inside researching at the small kitchenette table from books he usually kept well hidden from Sam in the trunk of the Impala or the bottom of his bag. Sam was sticking somewhat close to him, watching over John’s shoulder and enjoying John’s attention and company. Dad was updating his journal and talking to Sam about the things in his journal while Dean wearily watched from nearby. He didn’t like the idea of Sam being curious about the supernatural, but he knew Sam would be. Sam was inquisitive about everything new to him and always needed a for sure answer to problems and questions that evaded him. He’d want to know everything there was to read, he’d learn everything he could, and eventually he’d be good at hunting, probably better than Dean would be, because Sam was good at most anything he honestly tried. 

Dean didn’t like it, but they’d passed a point of no return when Sam had read the journal. Sam knew the truth now, and Sam knowing the truth without the details was more dangerous than Sam being completely in the dark. Sam was tenacious and if they didn’t give him the information he wanted, he’d try to go find it himself one way or another. It was better coming from dad than from Sam doing something stupid and putting himself in danger. 

It was almost time for bed and Sam was in the shower before dad finally really spoke to Dean. Dean had spent most of the day trying to go unnoticed feeling raw and clawed open, waiting for dad to drop into a frenzy or for Sam to start worrying again. Neither had happened, but Dean felt stretched a little thin. 

“Stay up tonight.” John said quietly, sitting down across from Dean and speaking to him directly for the first time while the water from the shower guaranteed them privacy. “We’re going to take a walk after Sammy’s asleep.” 

Dean’s face went pale and nodded wordlessly, feeling his stomach drop. He pushed his chair back from where he was currently sitting at the table, not wanting to be in John’s immediate vicinity, and pretended he was getting something out of his bag. He settled on an old book he had lying in the very bottom of his duffle bag. He set himself against the headboard of his and Sam’s bed, pretending to read the novel, but really he was watching dad out of the corner of his eye. 

Sam was asleep by 10:30 and when Dean saw John stand up from the table and stretch, he walked to the door and put on his shoes. He pulled on a sweater over his long-sleeved t-shirt to protect against the cold outside. John didn’t comment, but double checked the salt lines in the room and left Sam’s knife on the bed before he pulled his own boots and a jacket on and followed Dean outside. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground and the air was icy. Dean waited for instructions from John, but they didn’t come. Instead, John gestured towards the sidewalk and they started walking quietly down the road. They didn’t go more than a five minute walk before John crossed through an abandoned baseball park and led Dean towards the woods. 

As Dean followed John towards wherever dad had decided they were going, Dean wanted to escape; back to the motel, or back to the car, or anywhere but here really. He knew he couldn’t really get away from this though, and so he just followed a step behind Dad as he marched them through the overgrown grass towards the dark trees up ahead. 

When they reached the woods, they walked for another minute or so, just to make sure they were completely out of sight of the road. John found a clearing he liked, and then turned to Dean, who had stopped short a few feet behind. Dean was nervous and not sure what was coming. Dad wasn’t going to hunt him. When dad wanted to hunt him, he just let Dean go from wherever the motel was. He didn’t walk Dean out into the woods. Dean hated nights like this, when he didn’t know what was coming. Dad was usually pretty easy to read and as much as Dean hated it, he usually knew what he was expected to do during these late nights out of the hotel with dad. 

Usually he was supposed to try to get away. Usually he failed, and usually John made him go again until one or both of them was too exhausted to keep going. Less common were nights that John would just take his frustration out on Dean with his fists without the pretense of training. Those nights didn’t happen often, Dean couldn’t remember when exactly the last time had been, but it was a vivid enough experience to be remembered with a painful shiver. Dean didn’t really expect that to be this kind of night though, dad was far too calm and relaxed for that type of brutality. 

“Sam knows the truth now Dean.” Dad said. It was dark, but Dean could see him with the light from the moon flickering between the leaves above. 

“Yeah.” Dean said, trying hard to keep his voice neutral. Dad had taken a step towards him, and Dean had taken an unwilling step backwards. Dad pulled a knife free from his belt and Dean was eyeing it in alarm, trying to decide whether John would really cut him with it or not. John didn’t come any closer though, just held the knife between his two hands. 

“You gotta start training him for real Dean. No more skipping training to go to the park or library, no more having off days...you start training him every day like he’ll die if you don’t.” John said. Dean frowned, he hadn’t expected this kind of speech. He’d expected John to be angry with him for telling Sam the truth, not suddenly emphatic about Sam’s supernatural education. He wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or relieved. “He needs to know how to stay safe Dean.” 

“Okay.” Dean said weakly, glancing at John’s face and then fixing his eyes on the knife again. He jumped back again when it hit the ground with a dull thud a few feet from him. 

“Pick it up.”John said, nodding down to the knife in the snow.

“Then what?” Dean asked cautiously, eyeing the knife with suspicion. 

“All I want you to do is pick it up for now.” Dad said, shrugging.

Dean looked down at the knife by his feet, looking for the trick. Dad didn’t do easy. Simple maybe, but not easy. Dean took a couple steps towards the knife on the ground, and when nothing happened, he bent down to pick it up. 

That’s when John’s boot connected with his side and sent him falling back against the roots of an old maple. Some snow slid down the back of his sweater and Dean tried to flinch away from it as it melted down his back. Dean grabbed his side where it was throbbing from the impact. He looked up at John, who was standing completely calm a few feet away. 

“So is that what we’re doing?” Dean asked, drawing in a breath and trying to straighten himself out against the throbbing pain in his side. 

“Should be easy Dean. Just pick up the knife.” John said. 

Dean didn’t know whether dad just liked to play with his head or whether dad had a point to all this, but Dean was fairly certain that no matter how simple the task was, dad wasn’t going to let it be easy. Dean ducked for the knife again, trying to avoid John’s swing in his direction and managing to get himself clipped in the ear with John’s boot. The whole world sounded like an angry buzz and he grasped his head, feeling woozy and off balance. 

“There’s a new term starting soon. It’s been long enough people are going to start asking questions if I don’t enroll you somewhere.” John said conversationally as though nothing had happened. Dean struggled to hear him over the pounding in his own head. Dean made another play for the knife, trying to make John lunge in the wrong direction but failing to account for dad’s better sense of strategy. Dean spat some blood out of his mouth onto the ground where he landed and wiped a hand across his lips. He’d bit the inside of his cheek, but it would heal. He pushed himself up on all fours, looking for another opportunity to get around John and get the weapon off the ground. Dean hoped that if he succeeded, John would let them both go to bed. 

“Bobby’s going to take you both. I’ve got a lead I’m going to follow, you and Sam stay with him and go to school.” John straightened his jacket, watching Dean carefully for any sign of movement that would give away his plan. Dean moved his head and eyes too much when he thought through a situation. It made predicting him too easy. It was something John would have to work on with him. In the meantime, John had more pressing issues to deal with. “Sam needs to start training Dean, and reading. You need to teach him what you know and make sure he takes it seriously. He needs to know how to protect himself.”

Dean nodded, managing to pull himself to his feet and trying hard to find a weak spot somewhere. He was no match for dad, he knew that. Dad was bigger, stronger, faster, and had more experience in combat that Dean could even speculate. Dean had sparred with Dad and Sam and that was about the extent of it. Dean dug his heels into the hard frozen dirt and took another lunge to the left, feeling John's hands grab him easily and throw him to the ground again.

Dean picked himself himself up off the ground again, stumbling back a bit and taking a minute to breathe. His clothes were already starting to get wet and his fingers were numb. He was panting hard from the effort already while John looked comfortable and even a bit bored. Dean didn't really believe he was going to succeed in getting the knife up off the ground, so he started counting the hours until dawn.

***

Dean didn't remember having a bath. He didn’t remember being carried back to the motel wrapped in John’s jacket. He didn’t remember John tending to his cuts and bruises, making sure that his teeth were intact and washing away the blood from his face. When Dean came to he was already dressed in pajamas and in bed next to Sam. His skin was warm, and damp and smelled like soap. He was sore and achy, but he was clean and bandaged. John was drinking at the table, halfway through a bottle of whiskey. He looked over and saw Dean was awake. Dean quickly closed his eyes, trying to pretend he was asleep and hoping dad would just let him go back to sleep. 

He heard the chair scrape across the floor and felt a dry throb escape his throat. He kept his face buried in the pillow and waited for John to jostle him, or get him out of bed. Instead he felt the edge of the mattress dip and dad set something on the nightstand with a soft clink. He smoothed a gentle hand down Dean’s shoulder and arm. 

“Come on Dean, roll over and talk to me.” John murmured. Dean flinched at the sound of John’s voice, but rolled over and reluctantly opened his eyes. Dad smoothed a hand over his forehead before stretching out his closed fist to give Dean something. "Do you want these?" 

Dean stretched out his own hesitant hand and John dropped two pills into his palm. He licked his lips, recognizing them immediately. He wanted them. He knew they would make him sleepy and foggy and that the pain would disappear for a while. Dad only gave them to him sometimes, when he was really hurt or when dad felt really guilty. 

He swallowed them with a gulp of water from the half-full glass dad had placed on the nightstand. Dean fell back on the pillows beside Sam and Dad stroked his forehead again. Dean closed his eyes, feeling John’s hand gently tap his cheek. John pulled the sheets up over Dean’s shoulders, murmuring to him about going back to sleep, before he stood up. He turned the lights out except for a single lamp over top of the table where he sat back down again. He pulled the bottle of whiskey close and poured another glass, looking distantly out the small window next to the sink. Dean didn't think dad would be going to bed that night, but he didn't have the energy to care. Dad could do what he wanted, he just hoped dad meant it when he'd said Dean could sleep.

Dean turned away from the dim light of the lamp and focused on Sam beside him; calm, warm, safe Sam. He reached out, pushing a few strands of hair from Sam’s forehead and smiling when Sam made a noise and pressed firmly into his palm. Dean could feel his world starting to get floaty around the edges from the pills dad had given him. Sam rolled over, throwing a leg across Dean’s hips and resting his cheek against Dean’s chest. Dean sighed, almost in relief as Sam weighted him to the mattress. He closed his eyes dropping into darkness, dimly aware of a buzzing sensation bursting across his own skin and of Sam’s rhythmic breathing.


	5. Dean was... there.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is eight.  
> Dean is twelve.  
> A couple weeks after Sam finds out the truth. 
> 
> Sam stopped running, catching his breath and seeing the air fog in front of him. He leaned against a telephone pole. He hated doing this in the cold, it made breathing sharp and sore, and he knew once Dean lapped him again he was probably going to get chewed out for taking so many breaks. Sam didn’t particularly want to listen to Dean tell him off, but it was Dean not dad so Sam wasn’t worried about real consequences. Dean would be mad, then tell him with a few colourful metaphors to get his act together, maybe give him an extra ten minutes of jogging, and then they’d spend the rest of the night watching some stupid movie before they had to get ready for school the next day

Sam stopped running, catching his breath and seeing the air fog in front of him. He leaned against a telephone pole. He hated doing this in the cold, it made breathing sharp and sore, and he knew once Dean lapped him again he was probably going to get chewed out for taking so many breaks. Sam didn’t particularly want to listen to Dean tell him off, but it was Dean not dad so Sam wasn’t worried about real consequences. Dean would be mad, then tell him with a few colourful metaphors to get his act together, maybe give him an extra ten minutes of jogging, and then they’d spend the rest of the night watching some stupid movie before they had to get ready for school the next day.

It wasn’t late, about 5:30, but the sun had almost gone over the horizon in mid-January. It was cold running out here, but he didn’t mind it too badly. He was wearing a few layers and the fact that he was moving, for the most part, helped. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him. When they got back Dean would probably take a quick shower, run him a hot bath, and then disappear to find them something to eat or chat with Bobby while Sam warmed up in the tub. Sam sighed, wishing he could fast-forward time and be then already. 

He knew now why they had to train, and he didn’t actually mind it all that much most of the time. Since they’d come to Bobby’s a week ago and started school again, Dean hadn’t let them miss a day of training and he’d added new requirements to their daily routines. He’d added more push-ups, more sit ups, pull-ups, consistent target practice, more sparring matches. They’d gone from half an hour a day to almost a full two hours of training in the evening after school. 

It was still okay though. Dean was still Dean. They still goofed off between turns at target practice, usually tried to race each other to see who could get the most laps in before time was up, and ended up in laughing fits over the sparring matches that devolved into Dean pinning Sam down and tickling him until he managed to break free or begged for mercy. He never let them stop training early, but he was willing to take a thirty second pause for a smile and a laugh when the opportunity arose. 

Dean had always understood Sam needing some distance from the constant orders and structure in which dad had always wrapped their training. Sam could understand now, after learning the truth, why John was so adamant about them being combat ready, but it didn’t mean he liked it. He could hear Dean’s footfalls approaching from behind him and turned to watch Dean catch up, resigned to listen to Dean’s growling. When Dean reached him, he stopped too, looking around quickly before focusing on Sam.

“Taking in the scenery?” Dean asked sounding slightly annoyed and spreading his palms in question. He’d already stopped a couple times to get Sam moving again and he didn’t want to have to keep doing it. They were almost done anyway if Sam could just stop stopping. 

“Sure.” Sam shrugged.

“Sammy?” Dean frowned. 

“I just don’t want to.” Sam sighed. 

“Cut the crap, Sam. We still have time left. Get moving.” Dean said, rolling his eyes impatiently and shoving Sam’s shoulder. There was no real force behind it, but Sam could tell Dean was losing his patience. 

“You know what Cameron Reese is doing this weekend?” Sam huffed, ignoring Dean’s instructions. 

“No?” Dean said, raising an eyebrow at the mention of one of Sam’s classmates. As far as Dean was aware, Sam wasn’t friends with this kid. They hadn’t really been there long enough to make friends, just long enough to recognize some faces and names. Dean had no idea why this was relevant to Sam. 

“He’s having a sleepover. A normal sleepover, with sleeping bags, and a pull out sofa that’s in a living room. Not a weird pull-out cot on the side of some gross motel room.” Sam replied. His voice was rising, his words falling faster as he spoke. “He’s going to eat pizza with his friends, people are going to sing happy birthday to him, and they get to eat as much candy as they want and it’ll be special because they don’t normally just eat junk for supper because that’s what’s in the vending machine outside.” 

Sam stopped, kicking the ground with his foot, but not looking like he was quite finished his train of thought. He was frowning and seemed to be struggling to find the words he wanted to express himself. Dean could wait, so he didn’t say anything. He just nodded in understanding and waited for Sam to decide whether he had more to say. 

“They’re going to watch horror movies. For fun. Before they fall asleep. And they’re going to feel safe, Dean. Because it’s just a movie, and it’s all just fake, and monsters aren’t real.” Sam said slowly. “And we’re going to be running laps and practicing hand to hand because monsters are real and nobody’s safe.” 

“I know, Sam.” Dean replied. Dean thought about this stuff too sometimes, but he never let himself get too fooled into thinking that there was a way somehow that he and Sam could have lives like that. They had had lives like that, but then things had changed. Now they moved around too much for normal. They knew too much for normal. Sam didn’t remember any of it, but a normal life would be going backwards for them. 

“Why us? It’s not fair.” Sam inhaled a shaky breath. 

“No, it’s not.” Dean replied. He’d had this argument with himself a dozen times in his own head. It wasn’t fair that they lived the way they did. It was necessary. It wasn’t fair that they had to learn how to fight. It was safer. It wasn’t fair that other kids didn’t have to worry about their parents dying on the hunt. John saved lives. It wasn’t fair. It wasn't fair. It wasn’t fair, but- “But that doesn’t matter.”

“I know we have to, and I understand why.” Sam looked at he ground, kicking a chunk of snow near his sneaker. “I don’t need a lecture just...sometimes…”

“Yeah. I know Sammy.” Dean said. “Come on. We only have fifteen minutes left. Then we’re done and we can go back to Bobby’s.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Sam said, stepping away from the light pole and following Dean as they started to jog. Dean had slowed his pace to meet Sam’s and now they were just jogging together instead of trying to see who could make the most mileage. Sam thought maybe fifteen minutes wasn’t so long after all. 

*** 

Bobby watched the boys jogging up the path towards the house and checked the clock. He’d been hovering around the window for about twenty minutes wondering when the boys were going to appear. They were a little later than usual, but seemed to be unscathed. Bobby didn’t tend to hover, he usually let the boys have pretty free reign of the house and property within reason. He was paying attention to them though, watching the way the interacted with each other and the way they spent their time. He had been since they’d arrived.

He always watched them a little more closely the first couple weeks they were around. Sometimes when they showed up to Bobby’s, they’d take a long time to adjust to being themselves around him again. He didn’t know what caused it, but sometimes Dean was so locked up when they got there that he’d really only vocalize when asked a question. When he got like that, he’d stick close to Sam and try to stay in the background. It usually only took him a few days to loosen up, but it always made Bobby wonder. 

Bobby had noticed significant changes to the boys after school routine this time around. Bobby had never really approved of the strict regiment John had always imposed on his boys. When they’d been younger, Bobby had never pushed Dean’s training the way John had wanted him to. He preferred to have his own house be a place where the boys could take a few weeks, or a day, or however long and just be kids. If John left them there, he didn’t really get to dictate how Bobby let them pass their time. 

This time was different though. It didn’t seem to be John spurring the action. Sure, Bobby knew the orders had probably come from John, they always did, but this time Dean was almost feverishly adamant about their training. Bobby couldn’t put his finger on exactly where that seemed to be coming from. Dean had always more or less done what John had said, but this was a new level of obedience. He’d asked Dean about it a couple of times, but he’d given half answers and mostly avoided saying more than a quietly repeated “Sam needs to know how to protect himself”. It seemed like whenever Bobby asked questions about training, or John, Dean shut down completely and refused to engage. Bobby had seen that walled off look start to creep into Dean’s eyes when he’d prodded for more details and had backed off. He was still watching though, trying to figure out what was amiss. 

They’d been keeping to themselves a bit more than usual because of their new training, but otherwise they seemed normal; polite, a little unsure, attached at the hip, and sinking gently into routine. They so quickly adapted to the situations they found themselves in that Bobby found it impressive, but sometimes he wondered if the boys would be better off staying somewhere more permanent until they were older. He never suggested it because he knew John would never go for it. 

John Winchester. As far as Bobby was concerned, John was obsessed. His white whale was out there and Bobby was worried John was going to drag the boys along on his sinking ship of a crusade until they all drowned. Bobby could understand it, keeping the boys close, but he didn’t agree. Keeping the boys close meant putting them directly in proximity to monsters on a regular basis. Bobby never got a straight answer out of Dean about how long they were left alone or how often. He generally knew when John left the boys unattended as he was their emergency contact, but there was no real proof that John was with them as often as he said he was. Questioning Dean about it was never helpful, but Sam on the other hand, while he never really volunteered information when asked, tended to tell more stories. The stories Sam told were always very Dean-centric, and featured John like a recurring special guest on a TV show. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it made him pause. 

Some of it might have been how close the boys were. It made sense that Dean featured heavily in Sam’s stories; Dean was Sam’s main source of entertainment and they moved around so much that neither boy really had any other long-term friends. Still, the way Dean interrupted Sam with that tired anxious voice when he realized Sam had been talking too candidly for too long didn’t seem normal.

Outside on the path, Dean stopped running. He fell a few steps behind Sam and stooped. He gathered a handful of snow, and pressed it into a ball before whipping it at Sam’s back and taking off in the opposite direction across the snow covered lawn. Bobby couldn’t hear them through the window glass. He could imagine Sam yelling something, angry or pretending to be - sometimes it was hard to tell with Sam- before he charged off after Dean.  
He walked away from the window, and put the kettle on so that the hot water would be ready when they came in shivering and soaked. He looked around in the fridge for something to make. They were probably hungry. They only ever stopped long enough after school to deposit their bags in Bobby’s living room before heading out. 

As Bobby worked in the kitchen, an absent frown crept across his features. He had this aching feeling of wrong wrong wrong in his gut that he just couldn’t shake. Something was off with the Winchesters, but he couldn’t nail down the details. They were being normal now, playing outside like normal kids in the snow before dinner. He wondered why they couldn’t just do that normally. It had to be healthier than these compulsive drills. Dean was driven and anxiety filled, unwilling to lose a single moment of their prescribed schedule for any reason and he seemed to panic at the prospect. A couple days earlier, a snow storm had made their daily run impossible and Dean had been a wreck. 

“We have to.” Dean had said stubbornly to Bobby, gesturing to the door. “We go every day. We’re not going to get lost.” 

“Take a break today, Dean.” Bobby had replied, refusing to move away from the door to let Dean pass. “There’s ice pellets and no visibility. I don’t want you boys getting turned around out there. It’s freezing.” 

“Bobby-” Dean had said in a strangled voice, glancing back at Sam. 

“Enough Dean. You can miss one day.” Bobby had said, shaking his head at the boy’s stubbornness. “If it makes you feel better, no one in their right mind would expect you to go out there today.” 

“It doesn’t.” Dean had mumbled, turning around at the sound of Sam rustling something behind him. Sam had already starting to unzip his coat and the noise seemed to have Dean on the edge of panic. “Sam!”

“He won’t know, Dean.” Sam had shrugged, glancing up at Bobby before focusing his gaze on Dean. 

“No, Sammy. He always knows.” Dean had mumbled back, but it didn’t really seem like he was talking to Sam. There was something in Dean’s expression, that fearful far away vacancy.

“We’ll make it up tomorrow.” Sam had promised, stepping past him to hang up his coat. “Twice tomorrow, ok?” 

Dean had bit his lip, looking quickly out the window behind Bobby at the blistering storm outside. He looked uncertain, torn between fighting and admitting defeat when Sam tugged on the sleeve of Dean’s jacket. 

“Don’t whine about doing double tomorrow night.” Dean had said, trying to sound stern, but still seeming a bit strangled. 

“Ok. Let’s go upstairs and watch something.” Sam had suggested, kicking off his shoes before straightening them by the door. 

If they did make it up the next day it wasn’t a big deal right? Dean had shuddered hoping that was true before following Sam up the stairs to the spare room. Bobby’s eyes had stayed on him until Dean had ducked out of view on the landing. 

They were getting closer to the house, he could hear them yelling and laughing outside as he rummaged around the kitchen making sandwiches and heating up some canned soup on the stove. One thing that was easy about taking in Sam and Dean was that they weren’t very picky about what they ate and usually ate whatever he provided with enthusiasm. He heard the front door open. 

Out in the entryway, Sam was still laughing while Dean tried to dig out the snow packed into his ear. Dean was swearing up a storm in a voice low enough not to let Bobby hear and indulgent enough to let Sam know he wasn’t really mad at all. Sam kicked off his boots, and hung his jacket in the doorway, shaking the snow out of his hair. He stripped his wet socks and hung them over the radiator before waiting for Dean to follow him into the kitchen. 

It wasn’t really uncommon for the three of them to eat together. They usually ended up having supper together a couple times a week when the boys were there. Dean thought it was kind of a nice change of pace even though it was usually some version of canned vegetable and meat. It reminded Dean of when he was little sitting at the table with mom and dad. He found it homey. 

They ate mostly in a comfortable silence, ever so often bits of conversation interrupting the whirl of the stove fan in the kitchen. Bobby didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but the least he could do while the boys were here was keep them fed and safe. The rest would work itself out. 

***

Sam was sure it was past midnight. He couldn't be absolutely sure, because there was no clock in Bobby's spare room, but he was positive it was definitely that late. He and Dean had gone to bed hours ago it seemed and now Sam was awake again, but not exactly sure why. 

He rolled over, listening to the sounds of the house as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He could hear the familiar creaking of the walls and the rattling of a loose piece of siding Bobby hadn’t got around to fixing during the last couple years. He could hear the clock downstairs, clicking its way through the dark and otherwise uninterrupted hours of the night. He could hear the wind outside, making the tree limbs groan as though tired of the winter cold passing uninvited through the bare branches. 

The old familiar creeks were the same as always. 

Sam took a quick glance around the dark room. Nothing seemed different from when they’d gone to bed, though it was dark enough he scanned the room twice just to be sure. Curious about what woken him, but relatively sure there wasn’t any danger, he sat up. 

Nothing caught his attention right away as he continued to listen to the trees outside protesting in their quiet, mournful way. He was about to lay back down when a sound caught his attention. It was a light whimper; familiar enough he’d recognize it anywhere, but an unwelcome sound and one that made his stomach hurt a little bit. 

He didn’t know what Dean dreamed about. Dean usually told him to shut up or mind his own business when Sam asked, so he’d stopped asking a long time ago. He knew that sometimes Dean had nightmares so bad he woke up screaming. That usually made Dean defensive and embarrassed; Sam generally tried to wake him before that happened if he was awake. 

He yawned and stretched, before scooting over next to Dean. Dean was lying on his stomach, breathing heavily, and he was covered in a thin layer of cold sweat. Dean was frowning, his eyebrows pinched together like he was in pain. Sam reached out and shook his shoulder gently, trying to wake him but not accomplishing anything. 

“Dean.” Sam hissed, shaking Dead’s shoulder again. He felt Dean startle awake, doing a half push-up as he instinctively grabbed under his pillow for the weapons he normally kept there. They weren’t there though, Bobby didn't let them take knives to bed. “It’s me.”

“Jesus.” Dean huffed, feigning annoyance but only managing to sound shaky and a little sick. He fell forward against the pillow, mushing his face against it. He didn’t remember why he was out of breath and he felt uneasy and panicked. He rubbed a tired hand over his face, and looked up over his shoulder at Sam’s silhouette in the dark. “Why you being a creep, Sam?” 

“I’m not. You were having a nightmare again.” Sam replied. Dean could almost hear Sam rolling his eyes. Dean grunted noncommittally in response and rolled over to sit up beside Sam. He felt a little dizzy and disoriented, but it didn’t take his brain long to come into focus. He took a few deep breaths, trying to shut the images from his dream rapidly replaying in his brain. 

It was the same dreams he’d been having for almost as long as he could remember, about Sam being dead or lost and having no way to help him. They’d started a long time ago, before Sam could even walk. He used to dream about fires swallowing Sam up from out of nowhere, or being in a burning house with Sam tucked against his body and not being able to get away. 

Now he dreamt about monsters tearing Sam apart in front of him. He dreamt about Sam finding himself in a position where he couldn’t call for help and it being too late by the time Dean got there. He dreamt about Sam being caught by surprise and failing to survive. He saw Sam lying still, cold, and lifeless on the ground; his body splayed across the dirt in unnatural angles. 

Dean shuddered and reached a hand out, placing it against Sam’s back to feel the reassuring heat coming off of Sam. Heat meant life. Cold meant death. He’d felt both on Sam’s skin and sometimes he needed to anchor himself in reality. His Sam was warm. Dream Sam was cold. They were not the same Sam. His Sam, sitting beside him, was warm, so he was fine. 

He thumbed the hem of the shirt for a second before pushing his hand underneath to feel Sam’s lower back, warmer against his palm than it had been under Sam’s pajamas. Sam shivered a little at Dean’s cold hand, but didn’t comment. Sam pulled his shirt up a little bit to let Dean rub his fingers across his back a few times. Dean was starting to calm down and after a few minutes he pulled away. Sam waited. He didn’t think Dean was ready to go back to sleep, but he wasn’t sure. 

Dean scooted up against the headboard, and tugged Sam to sit in front of him, sideways and cross legged between Dean’s legs. He reached out and touched the edge of Sam’s sleeve. Sam let out a gentle breath of laughter and settled more comfortably into the space Dean had made for him. 

“Sam?” Dean asked. He always asked, but he didn’t have to ask any more than that out loud. Sam already knew what he wanted, so he grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it clumsily over his head, dropping it in his own lap. Dean leaned forward and rested his forehead against Sam’s bare shoulder with his eyes closed.They stayed like that for a long time, Dean leaning gently on Sam and counting his own breath to try to distract himself from his dreams. 

It wasn’t really working though. He could hear John’s voice still, echoing through his head about keeping Sam safe. In his dreams, John shouted at him for letting Sam get hurt over whatever chaos was happening around him. Usually John screamed about how Dean should have tried harder, been faster, taken more care, been more prepared - It didn’t really matter what the fault was, regardless of the nature, the fault always resided with Dean. 

He shivered, remembering John’s real life words. _You start training him every day like he’ll die if you don’t. _That’s what Dean was doing, he was following that order completely, whether or not it got a glare from Sam and a raised eyebrow from Bobby. He was following John’s instructions and making sure not to let up even when Sam complained. So why was he still dreaming about Sam getting killed? He was doing everything he could think of to keep Sam safe and to teach Sam how to keep himself safe, so why couldn’t the dreams just be over?__

____

____

He squeezed his eyes shut, realizing he had lost count of his exhales and his breathing was starting to speed up again as he felt the panic starting to take root again in his chest. He looped an arm around Sam’s back, resting his hand on Sam’s hip, and started over again. 

One. _Sam is fine. ___

Two. _Sam is safe._

Three. _Sam is alive._

Four. _Two different Sams._

Five. _Real Sam is warm._

Six. _Sam is okay._

Seven-

He could feel the goosebumps on Sam’s arms and pulled one of the sheets up over Sam’s shoulder so that he wasn’t completely uncovered. He felt guilty that Sam was getting cool, but Sam wasn’t complaining. Sam was humming something under his breath. It seemed familiar, but Dean couldn’t make out what it was. Instead of trying to figure it out, he closed his eyes and just listened to the wind outside and Sam’s quiet song. 

***

John tipped the drink in his hand, swirling the amber liquid in the bottom of the glass. The dusty tavern was full, but not crowded, and it was an hour before last call. John had found himself a spot near the end of the bar, just out of the way enough to be left alone. He was three glasses of whiskey in and writing in his journal, trying not to think too carefully about the hunt he’d just been on. 

Cases like this made John wonder how anyone anywhere ever lived a normal life. How did people not know about the evil things out there that did horrific things to people on a daily basis? Cases like this, where normal people were torn apart for no good reason, hit close for John. These people hadn’t even known ghosts were real, let alone about any of the dark things that crawled up from hell. 

He felt his fist clench restlessly and tried not to think about wanting to expel the excess energy. He wasn't a stranger to this internal fight. He was too keyed up to relax, his fight or flight still fully engaged even though he knew it was over. He felt like he needed to keep moving, to keep hunting. 

When he felt like this he always found a bar or somewhere suitable and he’d try to calm his jitters with whiskey and solitude. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn’t. When drinking wasn’t enough to push away the tension, sometimes John would start looking for another hunt immediately if he’d heard of any leads nearby. When that didn’t work John would sometimes pick a fight in the bar to help quench the aggression. 

John thought guiltily of the times when even that hadn’t been enough. When he’d driven back to the motel after a bar fight with some drunk idiot, half-drunk himself, pumped full of rage and looking to give into a predatory drive to hunt. He knew if he wasn’t so far away from where the boys were, this would be one of those times. He fought it when he could, but sometimes the pull of the hunt was too much for him to ignore. After fighting against himself for long enough to feel like he’d at least tried not to do what he was about to do, he’d wake Dean. 

He shuddered, thinking of the last time he'd pulled Dean out into the night. Dean had tried hard that night to dodge John's attacks and fight back, but John had put him in an impossible situation. Dean was no match facing off against his father’s pure anger and terror. Sam finding out the truth had hit a nerve deep inside that made John feel feral and Dean was... there. 

He hadn’t meant things to go that far. He’d never knocked the boy out cold like that before. For one horrified moment John had been sure Dean was dead. He’d stared down at his crumpled body, completely frozen in fear and shock. Dammit Winchester, this isn’t something you can come back from. He’d thought. 

He’d felt his hands go numb as he stared and wondered what to do. What had he done? Dean was dead. Now what? What was he going to do now? What if he went to prison? What if he didn’t? Should he call someone? Should he hide the body? Could he actually hide Dean’s body? Was he really considering that? What about Sam? Should he tell Sam? What could he tell Sam? 

He hadn’t been able to cope with the raw reality of his own thoughts. His own breathing had stopped completely until he’d been able to force himself to choose a plan of action. When he’d knelt down to collect the boy, he’d found Dean’s pulse and seen Dean’s chest rising and falling evenly and had felt a guilty wave of relief. He told himself he was just concerned for Dean, that he wasn’t guiltily relieved for his own sake. 

Afterwards he’d tried to convince himself that that scare had been enough to make him stop. He’d definitely stop this time. That had been too far. That had been too dangerous. He would never do _that _again.__

____

____

He was still trying to tell himself that, but deep down, he knew he was in denial. He would hurt Dean again. He already wanted to. He pushed it aside though, and let himself continue to tell the same lies he always told himself. He would do better. He kept his boys safe. He was a good man. 

They’d waited a few days after that night in the clearing before making the trip to Bobby’s.They’d stayed at the hotel for a couple days and had taken a longer scenic route towards Sioux Falls than usual. John pretended the longer drive was a choice and not something he was doing to cover what he’d done. By the time they’d reached their destination, most of Dean’s new bruises were in the later stages of healing, most of his older ones had faded altogether.

Despite his conflicted guilt about Dean, when he’d dropped the boys off he’d been sure Dean wouldn't cut corners anymore. Dean would do what John wanted. He'd heard Dean whimpering in his sleep, some kind of nightmare, a couple nights in a row as they’d made their way to Bobby’s. He'd been able to make out the words “Sam" and “danger" as Dean had tossed in bed. He'd let Dean sleep through it, hoping that if Dean was scared enough and motivated enough it would keep them both his boys safe. 

He tried not to be bitter at the word. Safe. No one was ever really _safe _. He drained his glass, putting it down with a little more force than intended. He tried to pretend once again, like he did every time he got into one of these moods, that what he wanted was a good fair fight. He turned around, surveying the crowd and picking out a couple men he thought were drunk enough to go for it, and big enough to be a challenge. He stepped off the bar stool, deciding which one to start a fight with first.__

He was too far away from Dean to get what he really wanted, so for now he’d go with the next best thing.


	6. Follow. My. Orders.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is 13  
> Sam is 9
> 
> Sam hadn’t bothered asking dad anything else. He’d understood from John’s tone that he had been dismissed. He’d already known that it was called a panic attack. Knowing it was a panic attack didn’t help any more than if John had diagnosed rainbow disease, but Sam had resolved to keep doing what he always did when Dean couldn't breathe; stay and let Dean be as close or far away as he wanted. He had no idea if that really helped, but it seemed to.

John was driving, his grip was still clenched like steel even though he’d been driving ever since dripping the boys off seven hours earlier at Pastor Jim’s. It was now almost evening, and even though it had been hours since the incident with Dean the night before in the graveyard, he was still livid;

_With ghosts _. When he was in his darkest places he couldn’t imagine death being any worse than what he was already living. Sometimes he resented the ghosts they put to rest simply because they couldn’t accept the fact that they were already dead. It was a gift that they were rejecting and John took pleasure in helping them receive what he couldn’t chase yet.__

_With Dean _. Watching Dean get knocked around by spirits was something that shook John every single time Dean let his guard down. Why couldn’t Dean just follow orders and keep himself safe the same way he followed them to keep Sam safe? Dean was a better shot than John was, and he had fast reflexes. There was no need for him to miss a command to shoot. It made him question whether Dean was even ready for this, going on real hunts, at all. But when Dean was on point, he was lethal. Already at his young age and with his inexperience, Dean was good at this and his skills almost rivaled those of hunters John had known for years. So John didn’t bench him. He’d considered bringing Dean along for this hunt that he was heading towards now. Having the backup was almost always beneficial. In the end, he’d decided to leave Dean behind. He had injuries from the night before and John thought it was better if he healed from and reflected on those, rather than heading immediately into another fight.__

_With demons _The case he was following now was nasty enough he thought it might be demonic in nature. The omens were there and the deaths were rapid enough and strange enough. He wanted to do a thorough job researching before running in unprepared. John wished there was a way he could kill every single demon that had ever existed. He hated them more than he’d ever hated anything in his life. Even if he could kill every demon he found, it would never be enough to bring back Mary or undo the evil that had already been done. All he could do was keep fighting and train the boys to be safe and to do the same.__

_With that damned rattle in the back of the car. What in the hell-?_

John slammed on the brakes and pulled over onto the side of the road. He’d been hearing that rattling sound for over an hour and it was driving him crazy. He popped the trunk, and dug around looking for the source of the noise and found some of his tools scattered outside of the toolbox. He picked up one of the wrenches. Dean must have been messing with them again and forgotten to put them back. 

He felt a smile pull the corner of his mouth. He remembered back one weekend afternoon, Dean had been just a little boy and Mary had still been pregnant for Sam, when John had taken Dean with him to the garage. He’d said it was in order to get a jump on the coming week’s work, but mostly he went and took Dean with him so that Mary could rest. He’d handed these tools to Dean and had let him play while John had worked nearby. John cleared his throat, and turned the socket wrench he was holding over in his hand. It hurt to remember before all the loss, so he tried not to often.  
A lot of things had changed since then, but Dean was still interested in tools and cars. John thought it was a useful skill set to encourage so he let Dean use his tools to tinker, though Dean usually cleaned up better after himself. Dean wasn’t here to clean it up now though, so John just tossed them back in the toolbox and closed the trunk. 

He settled back into the driver’s seat and started the engine, letting his mind drift again. He was angry with so much in his life and remembering the good parts always seemed to amplify the pain he carried around. He knew a large portion of that pain was self-inflicted. Things he had done made it hard for him to think about his boys when they were young, Dean in particular. Always bubbling underneath the surface was a deep painful, burning anger-

_With himself. _When his head was clear, when he was sober and calm he was disgusted with himself for the things he did. When Dean screwed up, he couldn’t even fight the urge to teach Dean a lesson about disobedience. The night before, Dean hadn’t even blinked while John had shredded him with words until finally, frustrated by Dean’s lack of reaction, John had let himself cut loose like he wanted to. He’d thrown Dean to the ground, letting his boot beat the message into Dean instead of trying to instill it in him with words. _Follow. My. Orders _. When finished, they’d walked back to the motel the same way they always had; Dean in front feeling ashamed and unlikely to make the same mistake again, and John staring in disbelief at the bloody bruises on his hands as he followed behind.____

____________Why Dean? He didn’t know. He never wanted to hurt Sam, but for some reason Dean always took the punches. Maybe it was because Dean was older and Sammy hadn’t been old enough to walk, let alone run, yet when this had started. Maybe it was because Dean was the more obedient one and he knew Dean would keep quiet. Maybe it was because, in the right light with the right expression on his face Dean looked like Mary. It hurt too much to look too closely at the resemblance in the daylight, but he couldn’t ignore it when he was drunk and fuming._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Afterwards it made him feel sick when he looked at what he’d done to Dean, not just this time, but every time. To ease his own discomfort, he’d gotten good at looking away from his marks on Dean’s skin. Cuts, scrapes, and scars doled out by John blended in with Dean’s injuries from training and hunting. John had learned how to make his eyes not to distinguish between them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It wasn’t the only reason he had started bringing Dean with him on hunts, it was useful to have a second person with him, but covering the marks had been one of the deciding factors. Having Dean hunt explained questionable injuries to hunters his boys had met, even if they disapproved of him bringing the boy along. His boys stayed on their most of the time when John was away unless it was going to be for more than a couple weeks at a time. As a lifestyle, hunting made it so that they relocated so much that they weren’t in one place long enough for people who questioned to intervene._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He tightened his grip on the wheel again and checked the gas tank, making note to fill up at the next exit._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________***_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Dean was ignoring the painful throb that was coming from his abdomen and was instead focusing on how the grass in front of him and the grass across the path were two different colours, even though they looked like the same type of grass. He shook his head and dismissed the thought, he didn’t know why he was looking at this. He was just bored._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He’d messed up again, this time on a hunt with dad. This one had been an easy salt and burn case, only about a two day job from start of research to fill in the salted burned bones. Things had gone smoothly until Dean had fumbled a shot. Those precious seconds where his fingers struggled with the weapon had sent Dean thrown back towards a headstone by the spirit. John had very quickly pulled him out of harm's way and finished it before things could get further out of hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Afterwards, Dean had sat on the ground and watched the fire dancing in the grave as John had picked up the debris lying on the ground and tossed it into the flames. Broken branches from the trees that had blown off in the final throes of the spirit’s resistance had added to the smoke rising in the middle of the graveyard. Dad hadn’t said a word to him as they covered in the dirt over the extinguished fire and useless bones. He hadn’t spoken to Dean until they were back in the Impala._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The lecture and disappointment he had endured on the drive back to the hotel was nothing compared to the fury he’d been met with when John had gotten back from the bar that night. Getting in dad’s way on a hunt. John had been furious with him. The pain in Dean’s chest now was John’s physical reminder of his failure to obey orders and not the results of the hunt he’d failed on._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________So now, Dean was on time out _again _and being sent the unwelcome message that he had lost dad’s trust _again _. It had been less than a day since dad had dropped them off and he was already getting bored and restless. They were here, doing another term for as long as Dad felt they should at Pastor Jim’s because dad didn’t want to look at him._____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Dean was aware he was starting to stew and that there was no point in spending time brooding. It didn’t do anything productive for them and Sam was starting to do it too, sometimes sinking so deep it made Dean worry. When Sam’s moods turned sour it was like he _was _anger. It usually passed quickly and then Sam would be back to his normal self; playful, sarcastic, exasperated, and quick witted. Sam usually reserved the outbursts for dad and he never said anything sharp to Dean when he was in those moods, but he got cold and distant and Dean didn’t want to risk sending him that way when he could avoid it by derailing his own train of thought before Sam noticed.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Sam was stretched out across the grass with his head resting on Dean’s thigh, reading the book he’d so frantically searched for the library. Dean wasn’t sure why Sam was bothering to finish it. It was one that he’d been studying at their last school, the one he had rushed to finish the book report for all through lunch and study period without having the chance to finishing the last couple chapters. Sam scrambled because he cared about his grades and Dad had shown up to yank them from school without warning. Again. Dean was sure Sam had probably done fine on the book report, even with the rush job and not being completely finished the book. Sam usually did well in school._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________When they’d reached Blue Earth, Sam had immediately started to ask for the library. Dean understood, he himself often complaining to Sam that ‘Blue Earth was boring as shit’. As soon as John had pulled off the highway Sam had started asking. Just one stop before dad went on his way. Just one two minute stop so Sam could go to the library and get a copy of a book and Dean could run to the convenience store. No more than 10 minutes, tops. Please dad! Dean had been surprised when John had pulled over, handed Dean a 20 for snacks and told them not to be more than 15 minutes. Sam had taken off at a run and Dean had laughed affectionately to himself about how much of a nerd Sam was as he walked across the street to see what the convenience store had to offer._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Dean sometimes teased Sam out loud about how much he cared about school and about how much he liked to spend his time reading, but in reality he didn’t really care. So the kid liked to read. Big deal. Sometimes though, Sam read some boring stuff that made Dean question whether or not they were really brothers. He had no idea how Sam got so lost in some things when Dean found it so flat._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Dean was more interested in cars and music, where Sam was fascinated with history and art. When they had access to a library, Sam would often take out books that were very dry, riddled with dates and intended for someone much older. Sometimes, Sam would try to tell Dean about what he’d learned. Dean would listen, but when the subject was especially boring he never paid enough attention to remember the details of what Sam was relaying. Sam didn’t really care that Dean didn’t get the dates right or that he sometimes zoned out. It seemed to be enough just to have Dean listen, so Dean did._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Until _it _had happened.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________A few months ago, Sam had gone through what Dean considered to have been a particularly nasty philosophy phase when he'd gotten a hold of an old college textbook. It lead to Sam, on more than one occasion, sitting down beside Dean and asking him crazy questions like how did he knew reality was real and whether or not a fundamental understanding of morality was something people were born with or something they were taught._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________Dean had lasted all of a week and a half before he’d stolen the book and lost it in a dumpster in back of a seven eleven. It was now safely back in Indiana, probably rotting in a landfill. Dean didn’t care what the action suggested about his having or lacking morality, and Sam had come to the conclusion on his own that he’d left it by accident back at one of the hotels. Dean wasn’t going to correct him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________He didn’t expect anything existential or demanding from the book in Sam’s hands at the moment though. This book seemed safe. It was something about a mouse and it looked like the kind of book Dean could support. It seemed like the kind of book that wouldn’t have Sam asking him hard questions like the meaning of life._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________Dean tipped his head back against the stone archway of the graveyard fence. Pastor Jim’s was Dean’s least favourite babysitter. Not for any fault of his own, but Bobby had cars, and Donna had boobs, and Pastor Jim? Well, he had a church. _Great _.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Pastor Jim was kind, and he knew them as well as any of their babysitters, but he spent most of his time working, either visiting people from his congregation, or preparing his sermons. That was fine, but Dean had no interest in that kind of thing. Pastor Jim and Sam; however, could sit sometimes for hours and have conversations that Dean tried hard not to hear because they made his head hurt. So, he was bored and he would be for a while and he’d tune Sam out when he got too bogged down in theology. Sam could be almost content here though, so that was good enough._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Dean closed his eyes. He hurt, but it was easy to let himself ignore the ache. He’d been doing it for so long it was like second nature now. He wasn’t looking forward to training with Sam later. He knew that running was probably going to make him uncomfortable, and sit ups were going to be painful, but he would do it because he had to. Sam wouldn’t train if he didn’t too, and he knew it was his responsibility to make sure Sam trained. It was his responsibility to make sure Sam was safe and that Sam knew how to keep himself safe._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Right now, though, Dean could try not to focus on how much later was going to _suck _.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________***  
Sam was sitting beside the door of the room Pastor Jim had made up for him. It was just past one in the morning and he was listening hard, trying to hear Dean down the hall. He knew Dean was awake, he’d heard him wake up from whatever dream he’d been having. He didn’t know whether Dean would go back to sleep or whether he would lie there awake for the rest of the night. It was hard to tell. Sometimes Dean didn’t even really wake up when he was yelling in his sleep, he’d just roll over and keep dreaming. Other times he woke up unable to breathe and would need a glass of water and some deep breaths before he could function properly again. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Sam had asked Dad about it one night, but that conversation had gone nowhere fast._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“Dad, sometimes Dean gets shaky and can’t breathe.” Sam had said quietly. He hadn’t wanted Dean to overhear him, but he wasn’t sure why. “He tries, but he can’t.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“It’s called a panic attack.” John had replied flatly. He hadn’t even looked away from the map he was using to track the wendigo he was hunting._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Sam hadn’t bothered asking dad anything else. He’d understood from John’s tone that he had been dismissed. He’d already known that it was called a panic attack. Knowing it was a panic attack didn’t help any more than if John had diagnosed rainbow disease, but Sam had resolved to keep doing what he always did when Dean couldn't breathe; stay and let Dean be as close or far away as he wanted. He had no idea if that really helped, but it seemed to._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________He considered the mood Dean had been in all day. He’d been fine for the most part, but Dean had had no stamina and very little agility today. Sam chalked it up to Dean being tired. Dad and Dean had gone out again when they’d gotten back from hunting so Dean hadn’t slept much. He knew aside from being tired, Dean was hurt somewhere. Maybe Dean had gotten hurt on the hunting trip and just wasn’t saying anything. Sam didn’t know for certain where or why, but Dean was definitely sore._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Dean rarely complained when he was in pain, but Sam knew he was right because he’d won too easily against Dean when they’d been sparring. Sam was good at fighting and beat Dean sometimes, but usually only when Dean was being clumsy or careless. Usually sparring with Dean was a challenge, training they completed where he was physically at a disadvantage against his older brother. Sam was good and could defend himself in a fight no problem, but he wasn’t that good. He couldn’t generally take Dean down unless there was something working in his favor._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________On the rare occasions when he did get the upper hand, Dean usually laughed it off easily and teased him saying it was a fluke. Sam didn’t take it personally. It was just Dean’s way of saving face after having his ass handed to him and Dean’s hand running through his hair as he teased always said what Dean didn’t. _Good job. Well done. _Today, none of that teasing bravado or pride had accompanied Dean’s defeat. Dean had landed with a pained grunt and laid there for a moment catching his breath, before getting up with a grimace on his face and calling a break.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________He wondered if whatever had caused the injury was giving Dean nightmares now. Sam hadn’t seen Dean when he’d come back after going out with dad. When Dean had crawled in hours after Sam had fallen asleep, Sam hadn’t really woken up all the way. He had foggy memories of Dean hitching him closer, shushing him when Sam started to stir, and then gently running his hands along Sam’s back and shoulders over his t-shirt. He vaguely recalled sighing in response and burrowing into Dean’s icy cold side, trying to warm him, but not much else._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________Whatever it was, Dean probably wouldn’t talk about it and Sam wasn’t going to ask and start a fight. Sam didn’t like it, but Dean always acted like it wasn’t important if he was hurt. He wouldn’t let Sam go unattended to for even minor scrapes, but he didn’t afford himself the same courtesy. Sam had patched Dean up loads of times from stupid things they’d done to get hurt during training. Dean said it good practice for Sam to know how to treat minor wounds, and he rarely even flinched when Sam’s unpracticed hands weren’t gentle enough._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________When it came to real hurts though, the ones that Sam was never around to witness, Dean always told him not to worry about it and pushed his hands away as though ashamed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________***_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________Dean was sweaty and he was freezing and he was so dizzy he felt like he was going to throw up. He felt like he was drowning. He couldn't breathe right, his throat felt like he’d been screaming and he couldn't get the water out of his airways. There was no water in his airways though, and he knew this. He’d felt this before, a few times. During one of the worst ones, dad had forced him to sit with his head down until he calmed down again. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him, but it had been deeply unpleasant. It wasn’t any more pleasant now._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________He tried to force himself to stop shaking and took stock of what he knew. He was on the floor at Pastor Jim’s. Sam was down the hall. They were both safe and not in danger. He pushed his head between his knees the same way John had made him, hoping that somehow he wouldn’t pass out on the floor before he managed to breathe._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________________Everything’s fine. _Dean thought desperately, but feeling his body hyperventilating against his control. He didn’t even feel afraid anymore, this was just happening to him now and it was exhausting. He didn’t remember any of the dream’s details, but he felt intense guilt and fear still twisting around inside of him instead of dissipating with the forgotten nightmare. He had to relax though, thinking about it would only make the struggle go on longer.__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________When he finally managed to pull a full breath into his lungs he collapsed against the bed frame, lying on the floor half sitting and leaning. He closed his eyes still panting wildly. He was trembling. His heart was still pounding in his chest, and he could hear his pulse in his ears, but he knew it would come back down with his breath over the next couple minutes or so. He ran a hand over his chest and stomach, as though trying to sooth himself, but winced at the pressure on his abdomen._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________He gingerly lifted his shirt to look at the marks he already knew were causing his discomfort. There was a long dark black bruise on his hip bone from where John had slammed him into some tree roots as they’d struggled; Dean to get away, John to keep control. He thought that one would be with him for a while. It hurt deep into his bones and was very tender to the touch. He had raised angry red scrapes across the soft part of his stomach from where the bark had bitten into the skin exposed by his rucked aside t-shirt that John had bunched in his hand and used to pull Dean around and to the ground. John’s bootprint was bruised prominently into the middle of his chest and Dean wondered for a moment how the tread on John’s boots had been replicated with such detail onto his skin._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________He looked away from the reminder - Orders, Dean -that dad had left on his chest and focused instead on picking himself up and putting himself back together. There were still a few hours before sunrise and he needed to get some rest. Sam was going to finish that stupid book soon and he’d want to run into town instead of doing their normal jogging track. Dean didn’t want to be exhausted doing it.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __

______________________________He settled down on the bed, letting his shirt fall back into place and then restlessly untangled the twisted up covers to throw them back over his legs. He folded his arms behind his head on the pillow and let out a long shaky exhale. He wondered how Sam was sleeping. He knew Sam was fine, Pastor Jim could lock down a house, and Dean had checked Sam’s room before saying goodnight. Dean still felt the need to go check, to make sure, but he fought it and stayed put. Other than the hunts he went on with dad, this was really the only place they stayed where they at least didn’t share the same room, if not the same bed. Dean knew half his problem right now was just being farther away from Sam than he was used to. There was nothing actually wrong and he should go back to sleep. Dean wasn’t used to the room being so quiet. He was used to the blankets being warmer and the occasional pointy elbow to the head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________He rolled over and planted his face in the pillow, trying to block out the rest of the world and ignoring the stinging protest from his scratches as he moved. He didn’t need to be awake right now, whatever it had been about, it was just a dream and he could go back to sleep.Unfortunately, he was very awake as he lay there still and listening to the silence. He closed his eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________That was when he heard the noise out in the hall. He felt himself go cold again as though plunged back into ice water. He reached under his pillow for the gun he had there. An upside to staying at Pastor Jim’s was that he never really searched through their things to see what they were carrying. He was very careful to limit the amount of sound he was making from his movements. The hallway was quiet, whatever was out there was moving slowly, as though trying not to disturb the sleeping house. He was barely breathing, annoyed by the sound of his own heartbeat as he struggled to listen for signs of movement in the hall. He was tense and staring at the door, ready to spring. He thought of Sam a couple rooms down and closed his hand more firmly around the grip of the gun under the pillow._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Maybe this, whatever was in the hallway, was what had woken him up after all. Maybe it wasn’t a dream that had caused the outburst. Maybe he’d just woken up because of something in the house and maybe it was his fault it was this close to where they were all sleeping now because he’d woken up without his head together. He didn’t know whether to wait and see if it came for him, or to take the fight to whatever it was. He didn’t want to wait here and leave Sam vulnerable, but bursting into the hallway with no real clue what he was about to burst in on felt like a stupid mistake._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Before Dean could quite make a decision, the door was pushing open and there was Sam. Dean stared at him for a few seconds and then he dropped the gun as though it had burned him. He withdrew his hand from under the pillow and ran his sweaty fingers through his own hair. Dean let out a shaky laugh of relief, one that he hoped Sam missed, but that he knew Sam had probably noticed anyway. Sam stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Sammy, what-?” Dean asked, pushing over to make room for Sam to climb up and sit beside him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“I heard you.” Sam shrugged, taking his place next to Dean and leaning against the headboard._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“From two rooms away?” Dean asked, frowning._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“You’re loud.” Sam rolled his eyes. Dean felt his stomach drop. “Dreams?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Pastor Jim-?” Dean asked, ignoring Sam’s question._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Freight train.” Sam said, waving away Dean's concern. Sam didn’t say anything else, but he was studying Dean, waiting as though for a stage cue from Dean on how to proceed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“I’m fine, Sam.” Dean said, and he immediately saw some of the tension ease out of Sam’s shoulders._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Yeah, me too.” Sam shrugged again as though he hadn’t been asking. He was fidgeting with something in his hands. Dean clicked on the lamp next to his bed so that he could see. Sam had one of the wooden puzzles from the desk in Pastor Jim’s office and he was taking it apart. “It’s not weird to have nightmares you know.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Coming from the kid with an imaginary friend.” Dean muttered back. He didn’t really want to needle Sam, but he was embarrassed. Sam glared at him a moment before letting it slide and concentrating on the puzzle spread out on the blanket. “Sorry.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“I know.” Sam mumbled, not looking up at him again as he sorted through the pieces._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________After a couple minutes of watching Sam start to fit the pieces back together, he let himself slide down so that he was lying on his side facing Sam instead of sitting against the headboard. He pulled the blanket back over himself and watched as Sam carefully slid the final piece into place._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Should have brought more than one.” Dean mused tiredly. Pastor Jim had a few of these little puzzles lined up on the desk in his office downstairs. Sam liked them, Dean found them frustrating._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Yeah.” Sam agreed with a small smirk. Dean smiled back and wedged his pillow more firmly between his shoulder and neck. Sam broke the puzzle apart again and started anew. Dean watched him in silence for a while as he worked and neither of them spoke. Dean could feel himself starting to drift and he pressed his forehead to Sam’s pajama clad thigh. Sam reached down and brushed his fingers over the nape of Dean’s neck in acknowledgement, before he went back to the already half assembled puzzle in his hands._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________By the time Sam was finished the second time Dean had gone heavy beside him and his breathing had evened out into a slow steady rhythm. He reached down and pulled the cover up over Dean’s back and shoulder the way he liked, but could never quite manage on his own. Sam saw the corner of Dean’s mouth twitch, but he didn’t wake up. When he was sure Dean was sleeping deeply enough not to be woken by movement, Sam gathered the pieces he hadn't assembled yet, leaned over to click off the lamp, and shifted away. On his way out, he stole a backward glance at his brother._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________He hoped he wouldn’t have to come back again tonight. Dean deserved to be able to get more than a couple hours of sleep._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	7. Low Profile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is 14  
> Sam is 10  
> The gym incident, the missed calls, missed meetings, Sam getting sick, running out of food... forget skipping town, they needed to jump states. Quickly. He knew dad was planning a hunt a few towns over, but it wasn’t going to be far enough. The Winchesters had to move far enough for the paperwork to get lost in transit and left behind. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to John yet, but he would soon. He’d wait to tell dad until they reached a gas station pit stop, when Sam wasn’t right there to listen.

***Today, Thursday Afternoon: 4pm.*** 

When Dad had left, he’d figured about two weeks. In the end it had been two weeks and a half, but estimating how long a job would take wasn’t an exact science so coming back a little late to collect them wasn’t abnormal. 

It should have been fine. It usually was. It would have been. Except it wasn’t. Dean could plot out every moment that had led them to where they were now. He was sitting in the Impala with Sam, thinking nervously about the damn papers in Mrs. Vand’s desk and wondering how to break the news to John that they had to get far fast. 

The gym incident, the missed calls, missed meetings, Sam getting sick, running out of food... forget skipping town, they needed to jump states. Quickly. He knew dad was planning a hunt a few towns over, but it wasn’t going to be far enough. The Winchesters had to move far enough for the paperwork to get lost in transit and left behind. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to John yet, but he would soon. He’d wait to tell dad until they reached a gas station pit stop, when Sam wasn’t right there to listen. 

*** Two and a Half Weeks Earlier: The gym incident. ***

They were four points up and had about four minutes left in the game. Dean was feeling confident they’d already won, but the other team was still pushing back hard. Jimmy Wright, of the opposite team, had the soccer ball and was making a run through the center of the court towards their net. Dean ran off after him, intending to block and steal, but that was when he collided with Lindsay Aberdeen and the two of them went sprawling in opposite directions on the floor. 

The game came to a clumsy standstill as a couple classmates helped Lindsay to her feet. Dean had already gathered himself quickly and was standing, as though the gymnasium floor was white hot and had burned him. It had happened quick, but Dean knew for a few seconds the mess left over on his skin from dad’s last hunt had been exposed as he’d fallen and he had to assess how badly he'd just messed up. 

He looked around at his classmates. Most of them were engaged in the game now that it had started again and it was apparent they were both fine. A few of his classmates threw a casual “Y’ok Dean?” his way as they passed by, and he nodded. He was pretending to rub at his shoulder where he’d impacted the ground, but he was really using the chance to look around carefully to see if anyone was watching him too closely. They all seemed invested in the two and a half minutes left on the court though, so Dean felt himself relax and he took a few steps forward to rejoin the game. 

That was when he caught Mr. Chandler’s face. There was no mistaking the expression of concern the phys ed teacher had sheltered under that neutral gaze. Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Mr Chandler wasn’t looking at him, but he was quickly writing something down on his clipboard and when he looked up they made eye contact. Dean didn’t know how, but he could tell by looking at Mr. Chandler’s face. He was caught. 

He decided to try to act as though everything was normal. Dean broke eye-contact first, and with one minute and ten seconds left on the timer, Dean jogged back into the game and joined his classmates. Mr. Chandler didn’t stop him. Dean thought maybe he’d let it go. Dean knew that that was unlikely and that he was hoping for too much, but hope was really all he could do. 

Dean hung back to change like he always did, letting the other boys ahead of him as they entered the change room. Dean found a quiet corner near a shower stall where he wasn’t exactly hidden, but he was where no one could look directly at him. It was his usual strategy for getting through gym class. Sometimes he grabbed a bathroom stall if there was nowhere sheltered to change. It was just routine now, and people rarely had an issue with the new kid keeping to himself. He pulled his clothes from his gym bag and quickly got to work.

He had English next, and he had no idea what they were supposed to be doing in class. The class was in the middle of a book that he hadn’t read before and he knew he likely wouldn’t bother trying to catch up. There was no point in trying. Even if he did catch up, he’d be behind again in another couple weeks when they moved and he’d have to start the whole process over again. He wasn’t Sam. School didn’t fit seamlessly for Dean like it did for Sam. Sam hated being new in school and sticking out, but he always managed to at least get whatever his class was doing done before they moved on. 

He could hear the change room starting to clear out as the conversation and buzz of movement started to still. The door opened a final time and never closed, but he didn’t think anything of it as he pulled his shoes onto his feet and stooped to get his gym bag off the floor. He rounded the corner towards the open door to find Mr. Chandler waiting, leaned up against the door-frame. 

“Anyone else in there?” He asked. Dean shook his head, feeling panic crashing over him, but trying to keep that same vibe of ‘normal’. He hadn’t taken that long, but the gym was almost empty. The last few people in his class were rounding the corner in the lobby towards their next period. Dean moved to pass him and follow, but Mr. Chandler caught his arm. Dean quickly jerked away, unable to stop himself, as he instinctively ripped his arm out of Mr. Chandler’s grasp. It was a practiced movement. Mr. Chandler seemed surprised by his reflexes, but he took a step back with his hands tucked away. 

“Dean, I want to talk to you before you go back to class.” Mr. Chandler said.

“I’ll be late. I don’t want to get another detention.” Dean said, trying to reason his way out of the gym. They’d only been there for three days and Dean had already managed to land himself a detention for talking back and refusing to work. Dean knew what Mr. Chandler had seen, and he knew any conversation about it was going to go nowhere good. He wished it could be twenty minutes ago when the only thing he’d been worried about was making sure not to let the opposite team get past him with the ball again because Alex Sleights was a bad goalie.

“You won’t be in trouble for talking to me, Dean.” Mr. Chandler said. “I want to talk to you about those bruises.”

“What bruises?” Dean asked. He could feel his pulse starting to quicken. He was caught and if they made him show them... There was no mistaking John’s fingerprints dug into his shoulder, or the bruises across his ribs that were the outline of John’s belt buckle. They were still too new. There was no way he’d tripped that thoroughly and even he knew it. 

“You know which ones. The ones on your ribs Dean. Let me see.” Mr Chandler said, taking a step forward, but still maintaining a distance. 

“There’s nothing to see.” Dean said, taking a pointed step backwards. He felt like a cornered sick animal. He felt relieved, that someone had noticed and was asking questions. He felt afraid, John was going to be angry if he ever found out this conversation had happened. He felt bitter, there was no point to this conversation and it was wasting his time because nothing would change if he could help it. He felt angry, who was this guy asking him about stuff that was none of his business? He felt guilty, he’d earned the marks on his body in one way or another from John or from not being careful enough hunting. 

“We both know that’s not true Dean. I can help.” Mr. Chandler said with a kind smile. “Just show me.”

Dean already knew what happened next if he told the truth. CPS. He didn’t want that. He did a better job than some stranger of keeping them fed and safe when John was gone.The potential to be separated from Sam by hundreds of miles because of some bruises on his ribs was unacceptable. Going without supper when they were low on funds and being beaten by John on occasion when he was an idiot was a price he was willing to pay to keep Sam out of harm's way. 

“I have to go to class.” Dean repeated, sidestepping away as though to leave. 

“Dean, I can’t help you if you don’t-”

“Take my clothes off?” Dean asked. He wasn't sure what made him say it, maybe sheer desperation, but he knew the gravity of what he was implying. He hoped it would be enough to make the man stay quiet and not report his concerns elsewhere. Mr. Chandler stared at him for a moment in shocked silence, and then opened his mouth to reply. Before he could, one of the gym doors at the other end of the court swung open with the first arriving students of Mr. Chandler’s next class. He cleared his throat and spoke more quietly, not quite a whisper, but quiet enough not to be overheard.

“Dean, you know that’s not what I-”

“That’s what I heard.” Dean interrupted. 

“Dean-”

“I’ll report you.” Dean said, before pushing past Mr. Chandler and bolting from the gym. He made it outside the school before he even realized he was running. He stopped short on the pavement, breathing hard and still feeling like he had to keep going. He wanted so badly to run. Far and fast until he was gone far away from the gym and the nightmare he’d just started.

He couldn’t though. He was already walking a very fine line now that Mr. Chandler was suspicious. He was almost sure the accusation he’d made would be enough to stop any consequences from his fall from catching up with them, but he knew he had to relax and act his part. He smoothed his hands on his jeans before walking back into the school and going to the office. He was almost a whole five minutes late for his next class and he needed an excuse. He stopped at the desk and waited for someone to pay attention to him. 

Then he asked for some ice. 

It wasn’t great, but it would work. He climbed the stairs with his stupid bag of ice that he didn’t really need for his stupid shoulder that wasn’t even hurt, and joined his classmates for the remainder of the period. He was jumpy and felt like his stomach was in his throat, but no one came to ask him unwanted questions and when he passed Mr. Chandler in the hallway later on they ignored each other and didn’t make eye contact. 

When Dean got back from school, he was still terrified, but too exhausted to do more than lay on the pull-out bed that they’d folded back into a couch when John had left and watch Sam do homework. He thought about getting supper started. Action seemed like an abstract thought, something other people did that he was distantly capable of, but not on his own. Sam would let him know when he was ready to eat and Dean would join him then. Afterwards they’d go do their training like always. 

The idea of going back to school made Dean vaguely sick. He didn’t want to have to face Mr. Chandler every day, but he would because he had to. It would raise more alarms if he started skipping out on school altogether. He felt so watched it made his skin crawl, but he knew it was temporary.

***

Sam could tell Dean was scared, but had no idea why. He was well past finished his homework and had started working on some of the material he knew they were going to be covering soon. He liked to be ahead in case he had to finish chapter tests or assignments in a hurry, otherwise he’d always be behind. When he decided Dean definitely wasn’t going to bring up whatever was making him anxious or calm down on his own, he cleared his books from the table and dumped them back into his bag.

Dean had the TV on, but his eyes were closed. His jaw and fists were clenched and his breathing had a forced edge like Dean was paying too close attention to his breaths for it to be natural. Sam had seen Dean lock down like this a thousand times, carefully storing away whatever was eating him. He never really managed to do it all the way. 

Sam slipped his arms out of his sweater and pulled it off over his head, dropping it on the coffee tabled before pushing his way into Dean’s space on the couch. Dean grunted at being jostled, but moved around to accommodate him. He ended up curled against Dean’s chest, with Dean’s hands resting spread out over his back. He felt one of Dean’s legs hook around his own, anchoring him as though Dean was afraid Sam would leave. 

Sam hummed contentedly and let himself go pliant in Dean’s hands. He felt Dean’s palms trace their practiced path over his skin, checking for hurts that were never there. When he was satisfied, he pulled Sam down tight to him and let out a heavy exhale, sinking into the couch. Sam was pretty sure Dean was spelling something on his back with with his finger tips, but Dean was going too fast to even give him a chance to guess what. Instead of trying, he rested his cheek against Dean’s t-shirt and let his brother trace the elusive patterns over his skin. After a while Dean’s hands stopped moving and flattened to him, pulling him tighter against Dean’s chest while Dean’s arms snaked around him more securely. 

“Problem?” Sam asked cautiously. Sometimes Dean got weird about stuff like this and would push him away, even though Sam knew it helped Dean and Sam liked the attention. Dean was usually so gentle with him when they laid down like this that Sam usually ended up drifting off as often as Dean did. He hoped Dean wouldn’t try to push him away now. They were alone, and would be for a couple weeks at least and he didn’t want Dean to spend that time being distant and standoffish.

“You have goosebumps.” Dean muttered back. Sam laughed soundlessly and reached over for one of the blankets they’d left messily slung across the back of the couch. He flicked it down over Dean’s legs and wrapped it securely around his own shoulders. 

“Better?” Sam mumbled, settling back down and resting his chin on his hands on Dean’s chest.

“Is it?” Dean shrugged, wiggling his own arms under the blanket and folding his hands together behind Sam’s back. 

“Yeah.” Sam sighed truthfully. “Something bothering you?” 

“No. Stop talking, Sam.” Dean shook his head. Sam smiled and nodded, as though he was expecting as much. Dean wasn’t being honest, but at least he wasn’t resisting. Sam didn’t really get why Dean shoved him away sometimes, but he was glad that for now Dean seemed settled. 

Sam was content, but Dean knew this was weird. He was 14. Sam was 10. It was weird for Sam to be stretched out across him so intentionally half-dressed like this. It felt different when it happened after Dean came back at night shaking and panicking. That had been happening for so long, and Dean needed the contact so badly on those nights that he couldn’t feel anything but grateful. Then there were other times like now, when Dean felt uneasy, but was holding it together. No matter how hard he tried to hide, Sam had been studying him and could read his micro-expressions like they large neon signs and usually decided to take action. 

On these occasions, Dean would feel a sickening twist of insecurity in his gut, like this was dangerously close to something less than innocent. Something he shouldn’t need, and shouldn’t take from Sam, especially from Sam. Even though it made him uneasy, he always caved into the feeling of security and warmth that Sam provided. He tried to tell himself it was okay, the same way Sam always insisted that it was okay. He knew he never did anything Sam didn’t want him to. He always asked or at least got a nonverbal from Sam before he ran his hands over Sam’s skin; he always made sure. Sam always offered. It wasn’t like they were doing anything wrong. It was just weird.

Sam picked up the remote from where it was lying on the coffee table and started flicking through the channels. Dean wasn’t watching what he was clicking through. He didn’t really care what Sam chose; he wasn’t going to watch it anyway. He was watching Sam. 

Freckles, clever lips, dimpled cheeks if he meant it, and sharp eyes. The only order from John Winchester that Dean always neglected - ‘clip that shaggy looking mop short’; the only order Dean disobeyed that he never seemed to catch trouble for. A little fiery. A little rebellious. Sarcastic, clever, empathetic, strong willed, determined, and passionate. 

That was Sam.

But he wasn’t above Ninja Turtle reruns and the stale Doritos that Dean had left in the bag on the floor.

*** 

Dean waited for the fallout from his gym class incident over the next week, but it never came. As the days passed he had no reason to suspect that Mr. Chandler’s questions had gone any further than the locker room door. He felt a guilty and sick every time he attended gym, but he made sure he was never first coming or last going. As far as he could tell, Mr. Chandler had made no efforts to approach him about it again. He figured he was safe. 

Dad would come back at the end of these couple weeks. They’d pack up and move on and they’d probably never come back here. He’d never see Mr. Chandler again and he’d be careful at the next school to make sure he didn’t make another mistake. Dad would never find out and everything would continue status quo as though there hadn’t been a hitch. 

They should have been safe. 

Except then Sam got sick.

*** Two Weeks Ago: Sam ***

Sam fell back against the door of the stall and closed his eyes. He had no idea how long he’d been throwing up. He had a sinking feeling that a lot more time had passed than he realized since he’d left class headed for the bathroom, but he couldn’t stop retching. He’d felt sick all morning even though he’d tried to get through it. He didn’t like to miss time form school, but he was definitely regretting his choice not to tell Dean he’d felt sick this morning. He was pretty sure he had a fever. He felt freezing cold, but his skin was covered in sweat. He knew in a few minutes he’d be boiling hot again. He had so many more classes today and he wasn't sure how he was going to make it. His head was pounding. 

“You in here, Winchester?” The door opened and a voice called in to him. He recognized it vaguely. It was one of his classmates, but he didn’t know the kid’s name. “Teacher wants to talk to you.” 

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and spit the rest of the foul tasting spit in his mouth into the toilet before flushing and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He rinsed his hands quickly and then joined his teacher in the hall where she was waiting outside the door. 

“How are you feeling Samuel?” Mrs. Flint asked. He sighed at the name. He’d already reminded her a few times today to call him Sam. It didn’t seem to be sticking. No one called him Samuel except dad when he was in trouble, but he didn’t bother to correct her now. She’d forget in ten minutes and they’d be gone in a few weeks anyway. 

“I’ll be okay.” Sam shrugged. He didn’t want it to be a big deal. He wasn’t supposed to attract attention. He hoped Dean wouldn’t be pissed. 

“We should go down to the office and call home.” Mrs. Flint said, reaching to touch his forehead with the back of her hand. 

“No, I don’t need to go home. I’m ok.” Sam stalled. John wasn’t at the motel, and he knew wherever John was, he wouldn’t be answering when they called. 

“Samuel, you’re probably contagious. It’s better if you go home and get some rest. School is still going to be here when you get better.” She said kindly.

Sam wanted to protest, but he didn’t. He was headed to the office and there was likely very little he could do to stop it from happening. As he followed behind her, he wondered glumly how many times they would try to call dad before they gave up. 

He sat on the bench in the office for almost an hour while the secretary tried ever so often to dial his father. She still hadn’t gotten through by the time the recess bell rang, though Sam wasn’t surprised. He just wished she’d give up already. Dean joined him on the bench a few minutes into the break. The secretary was away from her desk in the back office. Dean could see her in the photocopy room taking down a stack of paper and refilling the copier. She looked like she was going to be a minute, so Dean took a seat beside Sam. 

“Sorry.” Sam mumbled in greeting. 

“Not your fault.” Dean shrugged. “You were coughing last night. I wondered.”

“They’re trying to call dad.” Sam groaned. His stomach was turning over and he tucked his face against Dean’s shoulder trying to ignore the nausea. 

“I know. I’ll handle it.” He felt Dean’s fingers brush his knee momentarily before retreating. 

“I feel like crap.” Sam complained. 

“Yeah.” Dean replied, because he didn’t know what else to say. The secretary was coming their way so Dean gave Sam’s knee a quick squeeze and stood up. 

“Hi Dean.” she said as he approached the desk. “We’ve been trying to get a hold of your dad for Sam, but he isn’t answering.”

“He’s away.” Dean said with a quick smile before he fabricated a story to cover their predicament. “In the woods with a buddy hunting this week. Our Uncle Bobby is staying with us, but he’s not available during the day.”

“Your Uncle Bobby. From Sioux Falls” She said slowly, frowning. Dean felt his lip tighten. He knew they were already on the radar for a few minor things; a couple phone calls and notes home that had never been answered and neither of them had brought any response back about coming in to meet their teachers. Most schools were easy to fall into and slip between the cracks, but every so often there was a staff that paid close attention and once they noticed something off, they were hard to convince otherwise. “Why don’t we call him so I can talk to him?” 

She was looking down at a paper on her desk and he could make out the registration form he had filled out for dad before they’d started school. It had one of Bobby’s numbers etched down beside his name, the one that would ring out in Bobby’s kitchen labeled Winchester Boys. 

“It’s a satellite phone.” Dean supplied when she ran a finger over the area code and glanced at him. She shrugged, and picked up the phone to dial. Bobby answered on the fourth ring. Dean could feel his hands sweating as he anxiously hoped Bobby wouldn’t say anything that contradicted his very short, but undeniable lie. Bobby was usually very quick on the uptake. He knew they didn’t call unless they were in a situation where they had no other option. Dean waited and trusted the fact the Bobby had been covering for people like this for years. After a few seconds of explaining who she was and why she was calling she seemed to believe Dean’s story. 

“He wants to talk to you.” She said after a few minutes as she held the phone out to Dean.

“How sick, Dean?” Bobby asked when Dean picked up the line. 

“I’m not sure.” Dean replied. “Worse than this morning when we left for school.” 

Bobby was quiet on the other end of the line for a few seconds before he cleared his throat. 

“Can’t talk can yah?” 

“No sir.” Dean replied. 

“I’ll check in on ya later.” Bobby said before the line disconnected. Dean hung up. The secretary still seemed hesitant, but at least she bought their cover. Finally giving up on finding a way for Sam to get home, she led him back into the nurses' room. The nurse’s room was really a storage room that housed text-books and office supplies that had a cot and a water cooler set up in the corner. There was a garbage can sitting beside the cot and Dean wondered vaguely how many other kids had upchucked in it before Sam. 

“Want a book?” Dean asked as Sam seated himself glumly on the cot where he was going to spend the rest of the day. 

“Definitely.” 

***

Sam had collapsed onto the couch the moment they’d gotten back. He was tucked under a couple blankets with a bottle of water in front of him on the coffee table. He’d turned on the TV, but he hadn’t made it through the documentary that had been playing when he’d turned it on. It was long over now, but the TV was still playing whatever had come on next in the background. Dean was already sitting on the bed by the phone, waiting for Bobby’s call when the phone rang. Dean stood up and picked up the phone.

“Hi Bobby.” Dean said quietly, leaning back against the nightstand and watching Sam’s labored breaths. Sam had gotten way worse as he day had passed. The kid was seriously congested and each inhale seemed to take a large effort, even as he slept. 

“Everything okay, Dean?” Bobby asked. 

“Yeah. Just Sam.” Dean replied. 

“Anything else?” Bobby pressed. Dean bit his lip, but he answered because it was Bobby and Bobby was who he was going to call if things went nuclear. 

“Our school’s been asking questions about dad.” 

“Kind of questions?” Bobby hummed in reply.

“‘Where is he’, mostly.” Dean said, leaving out the incident in the gym with Mr. Chandler entirely and focusing on the questions he actually expected to be problematic. 

Today wasn’t the first time since arriving they’d been asked about their father’s absence. Ever so often, they’d land in a school where the staff took a special interest in making them feel welcome or helping them fit in. It was a nice gesture, but it always increased the pressure not to stand out too much from the crowd. 

So far, John had missed a few calls about helping the boys settle into the new school, parent-teacher interviews, a couple of requests for meetings, and a few phone calls home about Dean being a smart mouth. None of that on its own was damning, but things were starting to pile up. After the close call with Mr. Chandler last week and today with Sam, Dean was starting to feel like he was dangling one foot outside of the frying pan already. It wasn’t just today and his phys ed mishap that had him concerned about people asking questions. 

For the first week they been here, there had been no signatures in Sam’s reading logs. They’d only started appearing when Dean had started to forge them himself after the second time Sam’s teacher had sent home a note about incomplete homework. Sam had freaked about his grades and Dean had quickly grabbed a pen to stop the spiral. He was pretty sure no one had noticed the false signatures, he was always careful to swoop the J just right, but it was one more thing to add to all the ways they had to keep up appearances. It wasn’t so much that he was worried about the questions people were already asking, though they freaked him out. It was more about the questions people could start asking if they connected all the ways things were amiss. Over the last week Dean had started to notice even his own homeroom teacher finding little ways to ask about dad’s work or about what he was doing with his family that night. He usually smiled, told some half-truth based on what he and Sam were going to do, and hoped it was enough. 

“How long’s he been gone, Dean?” Bobby asked, pulling him away from the tangent he’d been on in his brain. 

“A couple days. Not long.” Dean lied. Dean was a good liar when he had to be. He didn’t like to be. It wasn’t who he wanted to be, but he was good at it. 

“When’s he back?” 

“Soon.” Dean said vaguely, before switching topics completely. “I think Sam has a fever. And he threw up a bunch.” 

“Probably the flu. Fluids and rest.” Bobby sighed, letting Dean dodge out on providing more details. “Some cold and flu medication would probably be a good idea if you have the cash. If the fever goes too high or stays too long take him to the hospital.” 

“Okay.” Dean said, listening through the instructions Bobby was giving him. 

“I’ll call you later on this week if I don’t hear from you. Call if you need anything.” Bobby said after Dean was silent for a few beats too long.

“Thanks Bobby.” Dean said softly before he hung up the phone and sat back down on the bed. He pulled the money dad had left for them out of the pocket of his jacket laying beside him and counted it. There wasn’t much, just over forty, and he didn’t have a real time frame on dad other than a “couple of weeks”, and they were running short on food. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying not to panic and instead to budget out as far into the future as he figured dad could take. He hoped that if he could spend 20 on groceries and medicine today that next week we could use the other half and do the same thing.

Knowing it wasn’t a concrete or guaranteed plan, he slung his jacket back over his shoulders and checked on Sam. He scribbled a short note explaining where he’d gone, and taped it to Sam’s water glass. Dean checked the lines, left a gun beside the water glass, and locked the door behind himself. 

It was a short walk downtown. He stopped at the grocery store. He managed to find enough things on sale, discounted cereal, a few canned soups, some packs of noodles, a couple of off-cuts of meat, and - for Sam’s benefit- a few vegetables. When he added up how much he would spend this would cost him about fifteen and change. He knew it was more than he should spend. He didn’t know how expensive Sam’s medicine was, but he also knew how empty the fridge was. He would dip into next week’s 20 if he had to. 

Once he had paid and crossed the road to the drugstore, he knew he had a problem. Cough medicine alone was way more expensive than Dean had ever imagined, and that was the off brand stuff that only helped with the cough and didn’t do anything about fever, nausea, or chills. Dean sighed in frustration, staring at the price tags in front of him and knowing if he blew this much on one trip there was no way they’d have enough food to last until the end of when John would hopefully come back. 

He didn’t know what to do. He chewed his lip as he stood, trying to figure a way to make things work the way he needed them to. He considered calling Bobby and telling him they needed help. Bobby would be there as soon as travel would allow. He thought about it and took a step towards the exit, before thinking about John. If he called Bobby and Bobby came and found out how long dad had actually be gone he’d have a bigger problem altogether to deal with when dad got back. He couldn’t call Bobby with the truth without causing issues with Bobby and dad. He couldn’t call dad because dad wouldn’t answer. He didn’t have any money. 

Sam needed this.

He’d never done this before, but he didn’t see another option. He settled on a bottle of pills that promised relief from body aches, fever, sore throat, headaches, dry cough, and nasal congestion. He figured it was the best one- it was the most expensive and had the longest list of symptoms on the bottle. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. He waited for a few seconds, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. 

There were no security cameras, just a large circle mirror up at the front and the only other customer in the store was turned looking away from it. Dean was out of sight of the back counter where the pharmacist was working and he cashier up front was a bored looking teenager who was busy reading some magazine. Dean reached down and picked up a bottle of nighttime cough syrup that promised to help Sam sleep soundly and quickly dropped it into his pocket alongside the tablets. 

He grabbed a small pack of cough drops from the shelf and shuffled up to the cash. He used a dollar thirty-nine to buy the cough drops at the register. He hoped the purchase explained why he’d taken so long in the aisle. As the transaction passed Dean had a hard time keeping his hands steady. He was terrified the pills would move in the bottle and give him away. The boy ringing him through barely even glanced at him as they completed the transaction and as soon as Dean had his change, the boy went back to what Dean could now see was a comic book open on the counter.

He walked the fifteen steps to the door expecting someone to notice something amiss, but as he passed through the doors no one called after him. No alarms sounded and soon he was past the store front he ducked into the alley to lean against the wall as he started to hyperventilate. He brought himself back down as quickly as he could, aware that he didn’t have time for the full blown panic attack he could feel building in his chest. He was leaning against the store he’d just stolen from. He needed to get a move on, but his vision was swimming. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe as evenly as he could. Finally he was able to take a long, although shaky, breath. He had to go. He took the pills and cough syrup out of his pocket and dropped them into one of his bags of groceries. 

The stealing and the lying wasn’t ideal, but as far as he could tell he’d managed to solve most of today’s problems. Sam had medicine. The school thought Bobby was staying with them. Bobby thought dad had only been gone a couple days. Dean felt scattered and off balance, but he dragged himself up off the wall and walked his way back to the motel.

*** Three Days Ago: The Sandwich ***

Dad had said two to three weeks and it had been two and a half. Dean was counting the minutes as they passed, hoping John would come back sooner rather than later. 

He was starving. Not literally, he had supper with Sam each night and wasn’t losing much weight, but he was skipping the rest of his meals. It didn’t seem to matter, he was still watching the level of the food they had left in the fridge diminishing faster than he was comfortable with. He’d started skipping meals a few days ago when they’d entered week three without hearing from dad. 

He’d had to spend the last of their money on a few groceries to get them though and more cough medicine for Sam. Sam was better for the most part, but he still had a horrible cough that kept them both awake if they didn’t douse him with enough medicine to stop the itching in his chest and throat. Dean had been too weary of getting caught to steal again from the pharmacy, so he’d used everything they had left except two dimes and a dollar bill. 

He was looking down at the work in front of him, ignoring the general pandemonium of the cafeteria. He was trying to concentrate on something other than food and how much he wanted it, but it was hard being surrounded by it. He wasn’t allowed to leave the cafeteria during lunch, they had to be here or outside. He technically could go outside, but it was pouring out so he’d chosen to forgo the option. He knew his stomach would stop hurting and growling at him once he’d drank enough water and when couldn’t smell the food anymore. He checked the time. Twenty minutes to go. He started another line of algebra with clinical attention to procedure and immaculate penmanship. It almost looked like he was going to bother finishing the rest of the assignment later, but he planned to throw it out after the bell.

Dean was in the middle of rearranging an equation to solve when someone sat down across from him at the table and pushed a sandwich on a plate to the top of his paper. Dean laid down the pencil in his hand and looked up. Miss. May, the middle aged woman who ran the cafeteria, was sitting in front of him with her arms crossed on the table. 

“Dean, right?’ She asked. He nodded without replying. “Noticed you over here working, thought you might be hungry. It’s turkey.” 

“I’m alright.” Dean said evenly. She gazed at him for a second and leaned her chin on her hand.

“You stopped bringing a lunch.” She said with a coaxing smile.

Dean eyed the sandwich cautiously, but didn’t reach out for it. He arched an eyebrow in question.

“I noticed that Sam always seems to have lunch...and you did too...until this week.” She ventured quietly. No one around them was paying any attention to them, but she leaned forward to help from letting others overhear. “Sometimes things can get a little tight before payday. Just thought you might like a snack.” 

“I’m not hungry.” He said quietly, refusing to acknowledge out loud that there was a problem. He knew he couldn’t keep it off his face. She knew he was hungry. He wanted it, needed it even, but he didn’t want to accept it. She seemed to understand that too without him having to say it.

“Tell you what.” She said, laying her hands flat on the table. “I’m going to leave it here. If you eat it, fine. If you don’t, fine. If you put away the dish, I won’t know either way.” 

She got up and crossed back to the other side of the cafeteria and through the kitchen doors. He looked around. No one was paying him any attention, all too absorbed in their own work, meals, or conversations. He looked back down at the sandwich and his stomach growled insistently. It wasn’t like he was giving anything away if he took what was already offered when no one was watching.

*** Today: Thursday Afternoon, 2pm. *** 

Dean as looking out the window, not completely zoned out but close to it, when his name over the P.A. system caught his attention. He stood up, feeling the eyes around the room watching as he pushed in his chair and picked up the book in front of him. It was the novel they were reading for this class and the only thing he’d bothered to bring in with him. 

He walked down the hallway and downstairs towards the main office, trying to figure out exactly why he was being called down. He hadn’t even really spoken to anyone today other than in passing. 

When he rounded the corner of the stairs he caught a glance of the parking lot and quickened his pace. Dad had pulled in front of the school and parked in the fire lane. He wasn’t being particularly slow, but dad didn’t plan on staying here long judging from the parking job, and Dean didn’t want to test his patience. 

He stepped through the office door and was waved on back to the principal’s office by the secretary. Dean had only met Mrs. Vand once, the day John had registered them for class. She’d seemed like a kind, but strict woman with sharp instincts. After the couple of weeks he’d had, she made Dean weary.

“Good morning.” Mrs. Vand greeted him as he joined them in her office. Dean smiled nervously. 

“Dean.” John said not looking up from the papers in front of him and filling in Sam’s information on the form. Dean had seen these forms loads of times. They were leaving, transferring schools again. This town and all the close calls were almost behind them. 

“Feel free to have a seat Dean.” Mrs. Vand said kindly. Dean shook his head and leaned against the door. This wouldn’t take long anyway. 

“Tonight?” Dean asked. John nodded and held out the Sam’s filled-in form to him. Dean gave it a quick glance over to make sure everything was right before setting it down to the side of where dad was working. Dean had all of his and Sam’s information memorized; various insurance card numbers dad used for them, and contact numbers and addresses for several people including a list of people he hadn’t even met before, but that dad trusted. 

Dean was aware of Mrs. Vand watching him carefully, even though she was trying to be inconspicuous about it. He’d only been on a few hunts with dad, still mostly the salt-and-burn variety that only got hairy for a few seconds before they dropped the match, but he’d always had a knack for knowing when things were watching him. “Sam know yet?” 

John shook his head and finished filling in the form with Dean’s name on it before handing it over and starting the last sections of the enrollment withdrawal forms. 

“Of course not.” Dean sighed taking the paper dad was holding out to him. He skimmed it quickly before laying it down on the desk on top of Sam’s finished form. He knew Sam was going to spend most of the evening pouting in the Impala as they drove on to their next next town, but Dean didn’t care. He understood why Sam hated moving around, but Dean used it to his advantage to blend in. Too long in one place was too risky. At least this was finally done. 

“Get Sam ready when school’s done.” John said absently as he finished signing the final couple pages. He reassembled the stack in order once he was done, collecting Sam and Dean’s respective forms from the desk where Dean had laid them and tucking them back into place. “Time?” 

“Forty minutes at most.” Dean shrugged. He and Sam hadn’t made a huge mess, and Dean didn’t think it would take them long to put back the things they had moved around. He was determined to be on the road as soon as possible. “Sam’s moved in.”

“I’ll get supplies and meet you. Be ready.” Dad nodded and handed the last few pages, the ones with dad’s contact information and signatures, directly to Mrs. Vand, not bothering to have Dean check them over. John sometimes had a hard time keeping track of which info he used for Sam and Dean and which emergency contact he’d used to register them, but dad’s info was always the same. John Eric Winchester, born 1954, and a number that dialed through to one of Bobby’s lines with a pre-recorded message. 

“Yes sir.” Dean replied. John stood up, and so did Mrs Vand. 

“I’ll file that accordingly,” She said, still holding the paperwork in her left hand while she shook John’s. She was smiling but it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Thank you.” He said, step for the door. Dean moved to the side, and let John by. He felt a passing hand ruffle though his hair on the way by, and then John was passing though the main office and out through the double doors to the parking lot. Dean turned to follow him out of the office and back to class. 

“Dean, wait.” Mrs. Vand said and he paused his his hand on the door. “You should sit. I want to talk to you.” 

Dean hated it when adults said the phrase ‘I want to talk to you’. It never meant anything good. He didn’t say anything, but closed the door again and then settled uncomfortably into the chair closest to the exit. 

“Dean, you and your dad and brother...you move around a lot.” She started, folding her hands on the desk and watching him. Dean waited for more, but she didn’t say anything else, she just went on studying his expression. 

“Yeah, I know.” Dean said, shrugging a shoulder after it became clear she wasn’t going to continue without some sort of response. 

“Your dad works a lot, doesn’t he?” She asked. 

“And?” Dean asked, evading as best he could. 

“I’ll be blunt Dean. You seem like someone who likes things straight to the point.” She said after a moment. “My point is that I have several reasons from several different reports from staff members who think your dad has been gone since you started coming to school here. How much time do you spend alone, without an adult and without hearing from your dad?” 

Dean stared at her, carefully trying to avoid giving her a reaction, but feeling his insides turn icy. He thought he’d avoided this exact line of questioning when Sam had been sick, that he’d managed to cover his own bruises with Mr. Chandler, that the stupid sandwich had been a freebie. He should have known better. He quickly tried to imagine a way to shut this conversation down, but he was coming up empty. He decided to stall. 

“My dad works a lot.” Dean said after clearing his throat. “His job’s important.” 

“Sure, jobs are very important. Hard work is important.” She replied frowning. “But that doesn’t make it okay for your dad to leave you alone for so long. It’s not safe Dean, and I have to report it. Let me help. How long was your dad gone? ”

Dean licked his lips and didn’t say anything. He’d never screwed up this badly before, but here - they’d made mistakes here. He didn’t know how to fix this. He closed his eyes for a second, before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. 

“I never said he was gone.” Dean said quietly, attempting to evade again. His head was spinning as he tried to figure out how to navigate this. Sure, John left them alone, but Dean could handle it. He had been handling it since Sammy was small, and he could still handle it now. He didn’t want this to be another thing he screwed up or a reason for dad to drop them off on someone’s doorstep. He needed to end this, now. Somehow. “What exactly do you want?” 

“I want you to tell me the truth.” Mrs. Vand said, she had her head tilted to the side, as though trying to figure him out. “If you tell me the truth we can help you Dean.”

“I don’t need help.” Dean shrugged. “Sure, we move a lot and Sam hates it, but with my dad’s work I don’t see another option. So sure, I could _say _some stuff about my dad, and then what?”__

__“You tell me the truth about your dad and we can-”_ _

__“There’s no truth for me to tell.” Dean said stubbornly. “You send some report? We end up in foster care until we grow out of it and I lose track of Sam?”_ _

__“I’m still going to make the call Dean. I have to. I don’t have a choice.” She said softly._ _

__“Then do it.” Dean sighed, trying to sound nonchalant, but screaming inside . “Go ahead. But we’ll be in another state by sundown.”_ _

__“That doesn’t matter. Once it’s filed an investigation-”_ _

__“Paperwork takes a long time to process, and CPS is bad at communicating between state lines.” Dean said bluntly. He was snapping, and giving things away, and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it. She was going to file it, and everything he was saying was true, but now he was going to have to tell dad everything so that they could go further and faster than anticipated._ _

__“How do you know that?” She asked._ _

__“Just do.” Dean replied, standing up. “Have a good day.”_ _

__*** Today: Friday, 1:15am. ***_ _

__He wasn’t surprised when he felt John’s hand gently shake his shoulder around quarter after one in the morning. He’d known this was coming as soon as he’d told dad in a quick rush about the several mishaps that had happened over the last few weeks and about Mrs. Vand’s intention to file the reports she’d received. They’d driven for hours until they’d finally crossed into the next state and dad had booked them a hotel room. Dean knew they’d be driving again tomorrow, putting even more distance between them and danger._ _

__Even though he’d known it was coming, he still didn’t welcome John’s shake on the shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, wishing that going back to sleep was an option. He knew it wasn’t, so he took a deep breath and then rolled over to face John. John was already wearing a light jacket and his boots. He was holding Dean’s sneakers in one hand._ _

__Dean pulled back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, neither bothering to speak as Dean pulled on the socks and shoes John was holding out to him. John didn’t offer him a jacket, so when his shoes were tied he followed John to the door and outside. John re-secured the room quickly, the way he always did, and locked the door behind them._ _

__“I tried it just all went wrong at once.” Dean said flatly, when John turned away from the closed door. He’d done things right and it had still gone wrong. He didn’t think an explanation would really save him, but he had to at least say it._ _

__“Doesn’t matter.” John said, shaking his head. He didn’t seem angry. Disappointed or inconvenienced maybe, but he wasn’t angry. Dad’s composure put Dean slightly at ease. Dad was punishing him, but he wasn’t going to be blowing off any of his own steam tonight. It was always easier on Dean when dad was calm. Unpleasant still, but less so. If he didn’t push back, John would likely move on quickly when he figured the wrong was paid for instead of lingering on the process. “You were messy. Take some time and think about why you need to keep a low profile. Stand there.”_ _

__“Stand here and what?” Dean asked, looking for the catch._ _

__“Think about why you need to be more careful.” John replied, zipping up his jacket and pulling the keys to the Impala from his back pocket. Dean didn’t really have to spend time thinking about that. He was already feeling those feelings of intense shame that John wanted him to reach. He knew exactly how near of a miss they’d avoided. He wondered where dad was going._ _

__John took a gun from his jacket pocket and walked around in back of Dean. Dean felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine. He felt dad’s fingers lift the back of his shirt, knuckles brushing against his lower back, and then the gun was tucked it into the back of Dean’s waistband._ _

__“Just in case you need it.” John said, still behind him._ _

__“Okay.” He said shakily._ _

__“Don’t lock your knees.” John warned, resting a hand on Dean’s hip for a second before withdrawing. Dean nodded and watched dad cross the parking lot and get into the Impala. As John drove away, he stood and waited like he was told._ _

__It was a warm night, but it was hard not to shiver as the evening dampness settled into the fibers of his t-shirt and across his bare arms. It was very quiet around him, and it made the sounds that his ears were picking up seem even more dangerous._ _

__He very quickly lost track of time. He was dimly aware of his ankles and knees starting to feel sore and he stretched his muscles a little bit._ _

__It didn’t really help._ _

__***Today: Friday. 4:30 am. ***_ _

__If John was honest, Dean was getting kind of heavy and difficult to manage for this type of thing. He could still carry Dean for now, but it wouldn’t be much longer until Dean would be too big for him to pick up and put back together. He tucked Dean’s head against his collar bone, and readjusted his grip under Dean’s knees and back. He managed to unlock the door with Dean still limp in his arms. He listened for a few seconds to see if Sam was awake, before he frowned._ _

__Sam was snoring, but he didn’t usually. John pushed the doors all the way and glanced at Sam to find he had contorted himself into a twisted mess among the covers of his and Dean’s shared mattress. His elbows and feet were sticking out at odd angles and his head was hanging over the side of the bed, blissfully snoring away, unaware of how many kinks he was going to have when he woke up. John wondered how Sam had even managed before crossing the room quietly and setting Dean down in the armchair by the window instead of the bed. Dean didn’t wake, though he pulled himself closer to John when John let go, as though he was cold. John propped Dean’s legs up over the arms of the chair to help get his blood circulating properly again, and then he shrugged off his jacket and laid it over Dean before moving over to untangle Sam._ _

__“Dad?” Sam muttered thickly as John put one hand under Sam’s head and used the other to lift him back up the bed onto the pillow._ _

__“Shh, Sammy.” He whispered back as he worked to untangle one of the sheets that had tied itself around Sam’s ankle. “It’s late, go back to sleep.”_ _

__Sam didn’t really reply, but made a half-questioning-half-indifferent sound before settling. John unwrapped the bottom sheet from around Sam’s neck and shoulder and found the boy had somehow managed to wiggle his way out of his own shirt. John tossed the half inside-out t-shirt over on top of Sam’s bag. Sam wasn’t cold so there was no point in waking him up properly to put it back on._ _

__John pulled the covers up over Sam and watched him sleep for a few seconds, peaceful and warm in the bed. Then he turned back to Dean who was huddled shivering underneath John’s jacket. He had considered just putting Dean to bed, but his clothes were damp and John didn’t see the point in prolonging needless discomfort. Dean had already paid for not being more careful and he was already going to be feeling it for a while. John went through Dean’s bag, pulling out fresh sleep clothes, before pulling the end table beside the armchair out a little to sit on. He eased the coat back from around Dean and gently shook Dean’s shoulder to wake him for the second time that night._ _

__“Come on Dean, time for bed.” He said quietly. Dean groaned seeming to regret waking even as it happened and blinked the room into view._ _

__“How did I get-” Dean stopped, his brain catching up to his mouth. He already knew how he’d gotten here; dad was sitting beside him. More accurately, he didn’t remember why he was waking up. The last thing he remembered was standing, and feeling cold and numb, his muscles sore and his bones aching to sit. “What happened?”_ _

__“You fainted.” John explained as Dean sat up properly in the chair. He handed Dean the clean long-sleeved tee he’d gotten from Dean’s bag. He watched as Dean switched it for the damp one clinging to him, checking Dean over for a quick visual on injuries Dean may have gotten from falling. There hadn’t been anything around for Dean to knock himself on, but John watched the flow of his movements just to be sure he wasn’t missing something. Dean was a little shaky, but was otherwise unharmed. John made a note to make him eat and drink something before sleeping. “I told you not to lock your knees.”_ _

__Dean didn’t reply, but stood to finish changing quietly. He hastily pulled on the pajama pants dad had set out on the arm of the chair beside him. When he was finished he eased himself painfully onto the armchair. He was exhausted._ _

__Watching Dean’s stiff movements, John considered the prescription painkillers he had in his bag. Dean’s feet, knees, back, and hips were likely sore, but he wasn’t really hurt. The stiffness would work out of his joints and muscles with some rest and time. John decided against it. Dean had a tendency to take extra off the top when given the chance. Tonight John wasn’t convinced Dean needed it and the last thing John needed was for one of his boys to end up some sort of addict._ _

__Instead, John went to the fridge, and came back with some leftovers from the supper they’d eaten at the diner down the road and a bottle of Sam’s fruit juice. He pushed them towards Dean, who looked drained and less than willing to humor him. John knew he just had to promise the right thing and Dean would uncoil and let him help. If he promised something would make Dean feel better, Dean would take it because Dean would want relief and he didn’t like to disappoint or cause conflict._ _

__“Eat, drink too.” John said, sitting back down across from him on the end table, but still holding out the offerings from the fridge. “That’s why you’re shaking. It’ll stop.”_ _

__“Okay.” Dean said quietly. He reached out for the juice first, taking a long, but ultimately not very large, drink from the bottle before passing it back and taking the styrofoam box John was holding. When he was finished, he passed back the empty container and John set it behind himself on the end table. He stood up and reached down a hand to Dean._ _

__“Bed. Come on.”_ _

__Dean hesitated, but then reached up and let John help him to his feet. John supported the majority of his weight as they made their way to the bed Dean shared with Sam. Dean’s steps felt very uncoordinated, but he couldn’t tell whether it was from how stiff and achy he felt, or from how tired he was. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel exactly comfortable as John helped him under the covers, but lying flat felt like such a relief to his tired...everything. He was distantly aware of dad turning off lights and settling down in front of the TV with a beer._ _

__Sam was squirming beside him and he turned his head to look at his younger brother. He wondered if Sam was dreaming and whether it was a good or a bad dream. Sometimes Sam moved a lot when he slept, but he never remembered his dreams well enough to explain which ones made him toss and turn._ _

__“Stop it.” Dean whispered at him. He didn’t want to get a side full of Sam’s foot once he was unconscious. He didn’t really expect Sam to listen to him, but Sam stilled for a few seconds before the twitchy movement in his fingers returned. Dean reached over and wrapped one hand around Sam’s wrist, his hold gentle. Dean hadn’t realized how cold he was until he felt how icy his hands were against Sam’s skin. He pulled the covers up more firmly around his own shoulders, mildly irritated that he couldn’t get the corner of the blanket wrapped around his back the way he liked it. Sam’s hips shifted and then he was lying on his side facing Dean. His wrist was still lightly circled in Dean’s grasp when Sam blinked his eyes open hazily._ _

__“You’re back.” Sam breathed tiredly. Dean nodded and rubbed his thumb gently along the inside of Sam’s wrist. “You okay?”_ _

__Dean paused for a minute to consider the question. Physically he was beat, but emotionally he just felt very empty and neutral. He’d used up most of his reserves over the last couple weeks worrying; about Sam, food, getting caught, getting in trouble with John... He only really felt relieved now that that was all over. Sure, he could still feel the impact of his mistakes right now in his tired muscles and bones, but they didn’t have to go to that school anymore. They were far away now, and dad had already punished him. As far as John’s punishments went, it hadn’t even ended up being that bad. It was done. He didn’t have to be afraid right now, so, other than exhausted, he didn’t feel anything. Dean nodded slowly._ _

__If he didn’t feel anything he guessed that meant he was okay._ _

__Sam gave him a sleepy smile, slipped his arm from Dean’s grip and twisted their fingers together instead. Then he closed his eyes again and Dean watched Sam’s features soften as he fell back to sleep._ _


	8. Delaware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is 15  
> Sam is 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright people, this chapter is fucked up on a variety of levels, so strap in.  
> Fun fact, this is the original chapter. This is where the whole story started. There’s way more angst in this final version than in the first draft, but here’s block one live and in colour! 
> 
> Warning: The first section of this chapter is literally Dean watching John torture someone for the first time and trying to deal with it in the moment
> 
> Warning: This is the first time things go too far between the brothers. Explicit underage wincest and subsequent guilt ahead.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

Dean stood back against the wall in the shed. He was trying very hard not to get in John’s way, to be useful when called on, and to avoid looking at any of what was happening in front of him. He figured two out of the three was close enough to success. He hadn’t really avoided watching. 

They were in an abandoned hunting shed - at least Dean assumed it was abandoned. The furniture and curtains were faded and threadbare. The blankets on the old cot were moth eaten and seemed mostly bound together by the dust that had gathered itself right into the very stitching of the fabric. The old windows didn’t open more than an inch and protested loudly when tugged on; a couple of them were painted fully shut. The air was thick with that unoccupied wooden smell Dean recognized from some of the places they had stayed in before. It was just a one room hunting shack with a an old rickety cot, small table, one kitchen chair with a missing arm, and wood stove, but it had suited John’s needs nicely. Small, tucked away, forgotten, and discrete.

John had prepared beforehand, spreading a large sheet of plastic out over the floor to catch the mess and rearranging the furniture to his liking. The chair had been placed in the middle of the room. Dad had unpacked a small bag of instruments onto the little table, which was pulled over beside the stove. There was a small fire going in the wood stove that John was using to heat up some of his tools. 

Dean hadn’t been able to look at that little table in over an hour as the instruments placed there had one by one been stained crimson from use. He also didn’t want to look at the red hot bits of metal poking out from the fire. It was a small cabin, and Dean was having a hard time finding something he could still look at. 

“Dean.” John grunted, from where he was standing over the chair in the middle of the room. “Gloves.” 

Dean wrenched himself across the room, not looking at the chair, never directly at the chair, and found dad’s fire resistant gloves in the pocket of his bag. He brought them to John, never looking past his father’s elbow. 

“Hold this.” John said, holding out the syringe he’d been using with one hand and reaching for the gloves with the other. 

Dean reached out numbly and took it, shivering as some of the tacky liquid that had run down the side of the syringe made contact with his hands. He wanted to throw it, but he kept the syringe of dark red liquid held out away from him, as though offering it for whenever John wanted it back. 

“Are you as much of a psychopath as he is?” The vampire in the chair spat at him through heavy breaths and delirious eyes. Her voice made him jump and her crazed expression made him swallow tightly around the lump in his throat. She was smiling a manic grin that had the hair on the back of Dean’s neck standing on end. “Ready for your turn?”

Dean didn’t reply, mostly because he was too startled by her question to consider a response. She had gone so quiet under John’s hands for so long that Dean had forgotten that she a being capable of communication. He'd forgotten there was a point to all of this. 

She seemed interested by him; showing more signs of life than she had in the last two hours with John. She was sitting up straighter, looking him over in an appraising way as though trying to figure out his weak spots. 

He took an involuntary step backwards as she lunged at him against the ropes, laughing maniacally. She was secure. Even if she did get out, John had weakened her by first explaining to Dean and then demonstrating on her the effects of dead man’s blood on a vampire. Her physical injuries from John’s questioning were substantial and even though she wouldn’t die, it would take her a long time to heal enough to even pose a threat. That was all true, but Dean still couldn’t help himself from retreating another step when she called him a coward and lunged forward again.

“Don’t talk to her, Dean.” John said, sounding bored. His back was turned and the top of the stove was open again, but Dean didn’t know what exactly John was taking out of the fire. He didn’t want to know and it didn’t matter. Whether it was the blade he had rested in the flames, or just the steel rod, it wouldn’t matter. It would all burn and the screaming and questioning would start all over again. This was just a breather, just a pause. They weren’t finished yet. 

“Dean, huh?” The vampire in the chair hissed at him, glancing quickly up at John as he rearranged some wood in the stove and made his selection. “I know your name now. My whole family will come for you. They’ll kill you. Dean.” 

“They’ll never hear about Dean.” John said lazily, turning to face them again. Dean dropped his eyes to John’s boots, seeing the hot metal rod flash before he’d been able to look away. He was still holding the syringe, but he was slowly backing up towards the wall. He didn’t want to be that close when dad started again. “You’re going to die.” 

“That won’t kill me.” She said, looking at the weapon John had chosen. “Nothing you’ve done will. Even that blood. You don’t know how, do you?” 

“How do we kill these, Dean?” John asked, calling her bluff. John’s voice was casual and relaxed and it made everything seem so much more intense by comparison. Her eyes snapped to Dean now, and as much as he wanted to he couldn’t drop her gaze. 

“Vampire.” Dean answered softly, his voice cracking halfway through before he cleared his throat to continue. “Behead it.”

John tossed him a small smile, almost proud, but never quite. The vampire in the chair studied Dean’s face. No matter what he was feeling, Dean had no doubt how this was going to end and she seemed to see something there in his eyes that made her accept the truth. She sank back onto the chair, still watching him, betraying her fear in the trembling of her lips and the corners of her eyes. The boy in front of her wasn’t someone she could manipulate and the man beside her was relaxed, as though he’d done this a thousand times before. 

“More I want to know first.” John shrugged calmly. Dean flinched and squeezed his eyes shut as John applied the iron to her skin. He’d seen it happen so many times already today, but each time was as awful as the first time. The scream, the smell, the sizzle of flesh, John’s almost gentle voice asking another question. 

Dean knew she was a monster; that she had killed people, and that dad needed this information to help people. He knew, but he was still new to this and she looked so human. Dad had told him he’d learn to see past the human features and that it got easier with time, but the intelligence of the creature they were in the process of torturing made him feel sick. A small part of him was curious and fascinated, and that perverse curiosity made him recoil faster than any of the things he’d seen here today. 

Dean clenched his teeth as he heard the telltale screams and sizzle of John applying the iron rod again. Dean couldn’t reconcile the body count he knew this vampire was responsible for and the intense pity swirling in his gut as John broke her apart in front of him. He wanted to beg John to just kill her already. 

Dean just wanted it to end. 

*** 

Dean watched Sam breathing steadily in and out, his hair in his eyes and scattered across his forehead. It was almost midnight now, and Sam had fallen asleep about two hours earlier twisted around him while trying to provide the comfort Sam could sense Dean needed and that Dean wouldn’t admit he needed. He smiled regretfully. He knew John was only going to let him lay here a few more seconds before he came back and shook Dean again to get him up, but Dean didn’t care. These seconds were his and he was going to spend them watching Sam. He’d seen so much today already. He wanted to watch Sam for at least a few more seconds.

What he really didn’t want was to follow dad outside; especially after what they’d done today in the shack, but he knew he had no choice. John was already rifling through Dean’s bag, looking for clothes while he waited for the boy to get out of bed. Dean sighed and imagined himself pulling back the covers and stepping out off of the mattress and into the cool hotel room. He could do that. He didn’t want to, but he would. Sam frowned in his sleep and reached out from underneath the covers as Dean slipped away. His hand went unnoticed and closed searchingly around thin air. 

John had come back tonight mostly sober. He was practically vibrating with extra energy, but John wasn’t upset, in fact far from it. John didn’t find killing creatures as emotionally draining as hunting demons or dealing with ghosts. John had a hard time with ghosts and on those nights he drank heavily. John had a hard time with demons and on those nights Dean almost always ended up with pain medication the next morning. Other monsters didn’t bother John in the same way. 

Dean figured dad’s cheerfulness was because he found monsters easier to understand. Monsters were simple and uncomplicated. They were evil, generally driven by a need to feed. They could be clever, and had personalities, but there was no denying they were evil, like demons but with less emotional baggage on John’s part. Ghosts and vengeful spirits - Dean supposed were too far into the grey area. They had to be pushed along, but they weren’t always evil in life. John found things that were too complicated trying to his patience and ghosts reminded him too much of loss. Monsters were easy. For dad, monsters were like hunting dangerous animals and they usually left him in a good mood. 

A week ago, they had come here following a lead that there was a vampire nest a couple miles outside of town. Now, John was high on a successful day of tracking, capturing, and interrogating the vampire they’d tortured in the woods. After they had the information dad needed and the vampire was dead, John had sent Dean back to the motel to get Sam supper and had stayed behind to clean up and dispose of any evidence of their presence before heading to the bar. 

Dean hadn’t really been able to say much to Sam when he’d come back. Sam had asked a lot of questions about vampires before Dean had gone with dad to the shack. He’d wanted to know how to kill vampires, what was true, and what was fake. He’d wanted to know how often they fed, how to capture them, what their weaknesses were. Sam had asked dad and Dean all of that and had kept coming back for more information until dad and Dean had left, leaving Sam to wait in the hotel. When Dean had come back afterwards, Sam had taken one look at his brother’s face and had shelved his questions for another day. 

Dean was still feeling fragile, even after a couple quiet hours in the dark pressed against Sam hidden under the covers. He kept remembering painfully that he had helped, mostly by passing dad things, but he had participated. He didn’t know how to feel about that. He’d known dad had had to do it, but he was still struggling to come to terms with his part in it all. He had been so glad when John had finally ended it and let her head roll onto the floor.

Dean knew that he had to get over it. It was just a fact that torture and interrogation were sometimes part of a hunter’s job. He had to learn how to separate it from the rest of himself and not let himself get affected by it. He knew that, but he wasn’t good at it yet. Dad called it compartmentalizing and said it would come with time and practice. 

He couldn’t shove it away right now though. Knowing that they’d killed a vampire with a whole nest worth of now angry vampires just waiting for nightfall made Dean extremely reluctant to follow dad’s orders to get moving. He didn’t want to make things worse for himself though, so Dean crossed the room to where dad was getting ready. 

John was struggling with the strap of the paintball gun, the hotel key caught between his teeth as he tried to unwind the strap from where it had tangled in his haste. Dean reached out and unhooked it from where it was caught and dad grunted a quiet thanks before shouldering the weapon and grabbing a pair of gloves. He tossed a pair to Dean, though Dean’s had grips on the fingers and palms to help him climb if he wanted to. John also passed him a long sleeve sweater and a pair of jeans. Dean took the sweater it as a sign that it was cold enough John didn’t feel comfortable letting him loose in just a t-shirt, but that dad also wanted him to run hard tonight and not to have his movement restricted by a proper jacket. 

He pulled on the clothes dad had set aside for him quickly, feeling the dread in his stomach increasing with every article he donned. There was nothing he could do to avoid this, but Dean could hear a loud rushing sound in his ears as his heart beat out a panicked rhythm in his chest as though begging him not to go. He joined dad at the door and John held out a belt with a long knife in a sheath attached.

“Better safe.” John explained, waiting for Dean to take it. It confirmed exactly what Dean was afraid of. Dad knew there was a chance, even a slim one, that the vampires had tracked them here. Dean reached out hesitantly and took the belt and knife in his hands. His fingers were shaking as he slotted the belt through the loops of his jeans. John opened the door and stepped out and then held it for Dean, waiting. Dean tried to move his feet, but his eyes were scanning the dark side of the parking lot where the light didn’t reach, imagining the sharp teeth of the monsters hidden deep in the shadows. 

“Dad...can...can we...?” Dean stuttered quietly. He’d never dared asking to sit out before, but he couldn’t move towards the door no matter how hard he tried to drag his feet forward. He thought if there was ever a night to ask it was now or never. It wasn’t like dad was already angry. He wasn’t looking to punish Dean, he was just still on an adrenaline rush. John cocked an eyebrow at him and Dean tried again. “Can we stay here?”

“Move it.” John said shortly. Dean had never struggled against him and as much as John didn’t -need- to hunt Dean tonight, he wanted to. He’d already decided they were going before the vamp in the shack had even died. He'd felt that adrenaline coursing through his system like a natural narcotic - addictive and so good - and he’d known. Dean was already ready. John had already checked a sizable perimeter around them for signs of danger and had come up with nothing out of the ordinary There was no reason they should still be here wasting time. John wanted to run and he wanted to hunt. After the tense day of interrogation, John wanted to blow off his energy before settling down for beer and bed, and Dean knew what he was expected to do. 

“Vampires.” Dean explained.

“You’re with me.” John assured him briskly. John was losing his patience, but as confident as Dean was in John’s hunting abilities it did little to move his feet from where they were rooted to the floor.

“Dad-”

“Fine. Go wake up Sam.” John cut him off. His voice had gone hard, and his stare had gone cold and predatory as he eyed Dean. He was done waiting for Dean to hurry up. He could physically force Dean through the door, but that would likely require some sort of physical altercation and he wanted Dean to start out in top form. John didn’t want Sam. He wanted Dean, but he was almost sure that the threat of waking Sam would be enough to get him what he wanted; Dean’s quiet compliance. 

“What?” Dean breathed.

“If you’re going to bed, send Sam.” John replied impatiently. John was waiting for him to decide, but tapping his foot in annoyance. There was something off about John’s expression, the indifference in his tone was fake. Dean could hear it. 

“You wouldn’t.” Dean said slowly, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t really understand it, but he knew that whatever dad got out of this had to do with him specifically. Dad didn’t want to hunt someone, he wanted to hunt Dean. 

“I will. Don’t push me.” John said dangerously. Dad had never so much as spanked Sam, let alone beaten him or taken him outside at night. If Sam ended up on the receiving end of a hunt, it would be as John’s punishment to Dean. It wouldn’t be to fulfil whatever it was dad got out of hunting him. It would be an exercise in teaching Dean to obey and it would be Dean’s, fault when Sam got hurt. “What’s worse, Dean?”

Dean swallowed numbly. John was giving him a very clear choice. He shook his head, thinking of Sam outside in his place, up against dad and against however many vampires they’d managed to piss off today. He couldn’t let that happen. Dean couldn’t. 

There was a way out tonight if Dean wanted it, but it was going to cost too much if he took it. He wasn’t sure how, but he managed to unlock his legs and walk shakily out after dad.

***

Sam woke up alone in the middle of the night, both Dean and dad gone from the room. Salt lines were poured around the room and there was a bottle of holy water and a gun on his mattress next to his bag. He sighed heavily and flopped back without checking the time. He didn’t care what time it was really, there was no way to predict when Dean would come back. 

He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Whatever had happened with dad in the shed today had left Dean quiet and shaken. He’d come back alone, and had made dinner silently. His shoulders had been tense and he’d flinched away from Sam’s touch violently. It had taken Sam a long time to convince Dean to uncoil let him help. They’d gone to bed early, both of them stripping their shirts without meeting each others eye and pulling the covers up over their heads. 

Safe under the blankets, Sam had run his hands over Dean’s skin just as avidly as Dean had checked his. He hadn’t understood Dean’s frantic movements when he’d been younger, but he understood them now. He’d been terrified Dean would come back hurt, even though he knew dad was more than capable of taking the vampire out on his own. Sam had wanted to ask about what had happened today, he still wanted to, but Dean had seemed so rigid and distant that Sam hadn’t tried. 

He closed his eyes, thinking about how he’d fallen asleep earlier pressed tightly against Dean’s bare chest. He’d been curled into Dean, wrapped around him as though trying to hold Dean together. Dean had held him back, at least warming up to his touch and taking sanctuary in the artificial safety of their makeshift cocoon. Sam smiled thinking about it. It wasn’t often that Dean gave Sam the opportunity to explore Dean’s skin in return. Sam liked it when Dean did, it felt good. He never asked Dean the way Dean asked him though. Dean could be weirdly secretive and touchy about his body. 

Since before Sam could remember, Dean had been back and forth about his views on personal privacy. Sometimes Dean wouldn’t change shirts in front of him for weeks. Other times Sam come home to Dean sprawled across a couch wearing nothing but jeans or shorts and he’d stay that way for days at a time unless they had to go somewhere. Sam had his own suspicions as to why Dean went through phases of being extremely modest and extremely unabashed, but he’d never proven anything or gotten answers out of Dean. He’d learned a long time ago to let Dean take the lead and not to try to push that particular boundary. Sam had tried once, and Dean had had a full blown panic attack that had taken hours to fully resolve itself. 

Sam sighed, rolling onto his side and tracing the pattern on the strap of his bag with his eyes. He was already awake most nights when Dean came back now. It was like he could tell, even in his sleep, when Dean was away and out of the room. There was no way of knowing exactly how Dean would come back, but he’d be waiting like always.

A couple hours after waking up to find himself alone, Sam was almost back to sleep when Dean came to bed. Dean was practically quivering across from him. He had an expression on his face that was lost and small. Sam reached out under the covers and brushed Dean's arm with his fingers, trying to soothe. Dean gripped his hand tightly and rubbed the back of Sams fingers with his thumb. It felt like they waited an eternity as John paced around the motel a while longer before finally settling down onto the opposite bed. 

As soon as Dean was sure John was asleep, he pulled Sam close to him and without wasting time started to methodically check over his skin. Sam sighed contentedly in response and Dean’s lip twitched into a quick smile as a result. He couldn’t pause and bask in how relaxed and languid Sam was becoming in his arms though. He had to keep checking Sam over to make sure he was okay or else the anxiety would never really die enough for him to sleep. 

The whole time John had hunted him, Dean had been distracted. He’d been convinced of vampires following him in the shadows even though there had been no proof. He’d been sidetracked thinking about Sam alone in the hotel being torn open by vampires while he and dad weren’t there to stop it. His train of thought and strategy had been continually interrupted with the thought of Sam being hunted by John in his place. 

It had made him stupid and he’d been caught more times than John usually managed. He’d been lucky that John had just been celebrating. Dean’s bluners hadn’t amounted to much more wear and tear than a usual night. For now, Dean didn’t care about the extra bruises he’d sustained and the constant anxiety that had burned a hole in his stomach while he’d ran tonight. He was back where it was safe. 

Dean moved his hands carefully down Sam's arms and back, just touching and listening to Sam breathe. Sam could feel Dean's heartbeat, fast and erratic. He carded a hand through the younger boy's hair and tugged a little at the strands. Sam closed his eyes, sighing again against Dean's neck and nuzzling in. He felt a silent laugh roll through Dean's ribs as Sam pushed himself closer into Dean's touches. He couldn’t help it. Dean’s attention focused on him like this was something Sam had always liked, always craved, even if Dean had to be this upset to get this physically open and affectionate.

"Easy. Stop squirming." Dean murmured as loudly as he dared. Sam pulled back and wiggled closer in an act of blatant defiance before smiling impishly at Dean. Dean rolled his eyes in response before shooting a tentative smile Sam’s way. Sam counted it as progress and rested his cheek back against Dean’s chest. 

"Where’d you go?" Sam ventured when they’d both settled, like he always did when Dean and John got back. He didn’t expect an answer, but if Dean gave him one he didn’t hear it. Instead, Sam was touching a bruise forming on Dean's stomach where his shirt was riding up and looking up at him with a frown. He was almost sure that hadn’t been there earlier. He hadn’t really been paying attention, but he didn’t remember seeing any bruises on Dean earlier. 

"It doesn't matter, okay?" Dean replied. Dean guided Sam's hand back up to his hip, rearranged his own clothes to cover the dark patches of skin, and flicked Sam’s nose. He didn’t have the energy. He hoped Sam would take the hint and drop it, but Dean knew better.

“Dean.” Sam wasn’t trying to ask him a question, he was trying to state a fact, but it was coming out uncertain. “That wasn’t there earlier?”

"Just training." Dean shrugged. “Not a big deal.” 

Sam was still looking uneasily at the place where Dean had hidden his injuries in the thin cotton like he didn’t want to let the question drop. Instead of letting Sam pursue his answers, Dean shoved his brother's shoulder, gently dismissing him. They’d been sleeping next to each other long enough to know what a certain prod or a poke meant; a variety of unspoken requests to roll over, to come closer, or to hold on tighter. Sam got the message loud and clear.

Sam huffed a small sigh of frustration and turned around, facing the wall. He rested his head on the bend of Dean's elbow and Dean wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist, firm, but giving him the freedom to scoot away if he wanted to. Dean closed his eyes, letting his hand wanted over Sam’s skin. Dean could feel himself relaxing, reassured by Sam’s familiarity and warmth. Running from dad had been hell tonight, but it was done now. He just had to keep reminding himself that it was over. 

Sam could feel Dean's breath on his neck and feel Dean's thumb stroking absently beside his navel. It was something that had happened a million times before. It should have felt good and been relaxing. It wasn’t. Well no. That wasn’t entirely accurate. It did feel good, but it was anything but relaxing. Sam tried to ignore it, but Dean’s hand playing with the skin of his stomach made him feel warm and flushed. He felt a rush of embarrassment, going from to feeling too-close-but-not-close-enough to Dean. 

It wasn’t a completely new feeling. It was something that had started within the last year or so. At first Sam hadn't understood what his body was going through. Then he’d learned more in school, mostly from other kids whispering and giggling about sex. Sam had tried a few things on his own and now he understood the sensation loud and clear. Sam shuddered awkwardly as his body refused to ignore his desperate mental pleas of ‘calm down’ and Dean, who mistook it for a cold chill, hitched Sam more securely against him and settled in behind the curve of Sam's knees. 

Sam felt close to jumping out of his own flesh. The places where Dean was touching him all along his back and hip, Dean's warm breath against the hair near his ear; it all felt like electric sparks. There was a steady heat now curling in his stomach that Sam was still trying to ignore. It wasn’t the first time, but he was always afraid when his body started reacting like this near Dean. 

He wasn’t afraid of Dean, Dean wouldn’t hurt him. Sam was afraid of getting pushed away or being told he was wrong. He knew normal boys didn’t get hard from laying down beside their older brothers. It didn’t happen all the time, just sometimes and it didn’t happen just around Dean; sometimes it happened around girls he liked and on the rare occasion other boys. That didn’t discount the fact that it had happened several times lying next to Dean and that it was happening right now.

Sam didn’t think Dean had ever noticed before and he hoped he wouldn’t now. He knew what his body wanted was different from what they normally did. Different from Dean’s hands roaming his skin and Sam stretching out to give him better access. They did that because Dean needed it. This was different and he didn’t want Dean to shove him away in disgust. He felt his cheeks flush red and he was glad for the dark. 

Dean's hand wandered leisurely up Sam's chest. He paused there for a few seconds before he gently returned his hand to Sam's waist. Something was off about Sam, but he didn’t know what it was. Sam had gone tense, his back rigid, and his muscles locked. Dean pressed his palm flat to Sam's stomach again and repeated the same lazy trail back up to his chest, trying to reassure whatever was making Sam uneasy. He tucked his nose against the back of Sam’s ear, breathing in the familiar smell of salt and discount body wash. He closed his eyes, brushing the tip of his nose against the shell of Sam’s ear, murmuring a brief reassurance. 

When Dean's hand reached its destination back beside Sam's naval for the second time, Sam let out a shaky exhale he hadn't realized he was holding in. Dean’s cheek and nose against his neck had goosebumps running down Sam’s arms and he knew he desperately had to get away, but he felt frozen. As tense and scared as he was, Dean wrapped around him felt so good. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

As Dean continued his unintended assault on Sam's skin, Sam tried to focus on anything else, but was coming up empty. When he felt like he was going to catch fire if it went on any longer, he tried to put some space between himself and Dean. Sam tried to edge away, ending up almost on his back. Dean, trying to help Sam escape, lifted the covers and Sam was caught. They stared at each other in an awkward moment of silence, Sam breathing hard. 

“Oh.” Dean said softly after a few seconds, comprehension colouring his cheeks a rosy colour to match Sam’s. He bit his lip, knowing that his face was mirroring Sam’s spooked expression. He didn’t know how to handle this. All he knew was that Sam looked beyond terrified and like he’d never stop being embarrassed for the rest of his life. Dean’s brain was trying to catch up. It didn’t have to be a big deal if he didn’t make it a big deal. He cringed at what came out of his mouth next. “It happens.” 

“Right.” Sam’s eyes darted over Dean’s face, trying to read the expression that was there. He’d expected Dean to be disgusted, but Dean didn’t look disgusted. Dean’s face was tired, anxious, raw, a little surprised, but not disgusted. 

“Up to you, Sammy.” Dean cleared his throat quietly and, without breaking eye-contact with Sam, lifted the blanket deliberately, gesturing to the space beside him in invitation. Dean’s strategy was going to be to play it cool, act like normal. If Sam wanted his spot back it was there, but it was Sam’s choice how they were going to navigate the awkwardness. 

"I'm ok. We’re ok." Sam replied, watching Dean’s carefully empty, but concerned expression. He didn't know why he felt the need to tell Dean that, but saying it felt important. Sam slid forward hesitantly and reclaimed his spot beside Dean on the mattress. Dean nodded as though that answered anything, and cautiously put his arm back around Sam’s shoulders. Sam wrapped himself as tightly around Dean as he could, tangling them back together and trying to feel secure. Dean hadn’t thrown him out of bed, so that was something. He still felt the steady thrum of not-enough-too-much low in his stomach, but it had settled into a slow scorching sensation instead of the white hot confusion of a few moments before. 

Slowly, Dean hands started to resume their path across his skin. Dean was trying not to think, but he couldn't get out of his own head. If he was honest, it had been a couple years since the two of them lying like this together had felt innocent to Dean. It had been their normal, and he’d tried to push away the feeling and thoughts that made it ‘wrong’ and had very carefully stuck to neutral. Sam’s skin made him calm, that was all. 

This was the first time Dean had realized the mounting tension between them was mutual and they were in, what Dean considered, way over their collective heads. Sure, he'd noticed his own hands wandering from time to time places that they shouldn't have been, Sam's jaw, the curve oh his hips, but he'd always dismissed it as not crossing the line because to Sam it was platonic and he’d never ventured further. He couldn't tell where the line was exactly, but Dean knew they were now toeing it extremely closely. He wasn’t exactly sure how they’d gotten here or how to backpedal.

After a few more lengths of the path he’d trailed over Sam’s body, Dean's hands stuttered when they brushed into Sam's waist band by accident. Dean drew in a slow breath, his fingers tensing. He was going to hell for even hesitating or thinking about this. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to pull back, but not managing to retract his hand more than an inch or so back up Sam’s stomach. He could feel Sam quivering against him as though wound with energy. When he met Sam’s eyes, they were dark and focused on Dean’s face, searching for a hint as to what to do. 

Sam swallowed hard, itching to move underneath Dean's fingers but not wanting to press his luck. His feelings towards Dean were complicated. Underneath all of the invisible layers Dean put on before walking out the door in the morning - the ones that made him act like a tough jerk who didn’t need anything from anyone - Dean was careful and gentle and made Sam smile simply because he was Dean. Sometimes Dean also made Sam annoyed, angry, or exasperated simply because Dean was Dean, but the affection was always there It wasn’t something Sam thought about or even consciously registered, but Dean was who he relied on and trusted. Dean was who he went to when he had a problem he didn’t know how to fix, and Dean was the one who always fixed it. 

"It's okay." Sam whispered again. Sam shoved gently against Dean’s chest with his hand, trying to get Dean to give him some hint in that cloudy expression. Dean shook his head, trying to lean away somewhat, but hating to lose the closeness. Dean should have stopped this months ago, years ago even, before it had become this twisted mess. "Whatever's wrong. This is okay. I'm ok, so are you." 

"Sam-"

There was a grunt from the bed across from them and both boys froze, silently staring at each other with wide eyes. They’d both pretty much forgotten John was still there. John mumbled something and rolled over. Sam watched the bed over Dean's shoulder with wide scared eyes. Dean was trying to calm his own breathing so he could listen. After a few more seconds Dean decided that John didn't seem to be waking up. Dean felt a wave of relief wash over him and closed his eyes, silently thanking he had-no-idea-who for avoiding the close call.

It was John almost waking up that brought Dean back around completely to his senses. This was insane, and dangerous; if not for any other reason- like how wrong it was for him to have put his baby brother in this position - than because they were going to get caught if they didn’t shut up. Dean wasn’t stupid enough to think John’s reaction to waking up to something like this was going to be less than explosive. 

Dean tried to back up on the mattress, but his feet were still tangled with Sam's. Sam shifted trying to get out of his way, but a surprised gasp escaping his lips as his hips stuttered at the friction. Dean stopped breathing all together and darted out of the bed quietly in a panic. Sam bolted upright, shaking and pleading in whispers for Dean not to be mad while glancing at dad in terror. Dean didn't want Sam’s whispers to wake dad. Dean scrambled to Sam’s side and grabbed both of Sam's hands, pulling him up and out of the blankets in one quick movement. 

"Bathroom." He hissed, shoving Sam in that direction. Sam quickly got his feet under himself and ducked into the bathroom in front of Dean, who carefully latched and locked the door behind them. Dean fumbled for the adjustable light switch and turned on the least bright setting, not wanting the light from under the door to attract attention. Sam was already sitting on the side of the tub, his face strained and looking up at Dean. Dean ran his hand through his own still damp hair and paced the two or three steps the bathroom allowed him before sitting down on the closed toilet and trying hard not to look at Sam. 

"Dean, I’m sorry-" 

"Sam. It’s not-" Dean interrupted softly before going silent again. Dean’s tone, despite being gentle, was hard and distant. It was a tone Sam had heard Dean use a million times, usually after Sam had done something stupid and gotten himself hurt. He wondered about it now and how Dean’s careful reprimand applied in this context. 

“I”m...It’s ok, Dean.” Sam whispered quietly, trying to reassure him. Dean looked like he was very close to freaking out and Sam felt helpless. Sam felt guilty, and confused, and he wanted back into Dean’s space so badly. He felt exposed and small on the side of the bathtub, but he didn’t want to reach out to Dean first. Dean had a wild-animal-in-a-trap look in the corner of his eyes that Sam had learned to avoid in stray dogs. 

Dean shook his head. Dean was struggling trying to come up with a reason Sam would accept for why this wasn’t okay without being cruel. It was proving difficult. Even as he was trying to come up with a way to explain their situation, Dean was looking at Sam's collar bone wondering what it would feel like under his mouth. He had no idea where the thought came from. 

Dean didn't have a ton of experience with girls, only what he'd seen in skin mags and in the porn he sometimes found channel surfing. He had no experience at all with other guys.He knew he shouldn’t even be considering this, especially with Sam, especially with dad in the room, only separated by a thin door and a half broken lock. He knew all that...but the idea of Sam didn't feel in his mind as though he thought sex should feel. It didn't feel new, or foreign to think about touching Sam like that and recognizing that particular familiarity scared the hell out of him. He wanted it to feel wrong, but it just didn’t. 

They were already way past whatever line he’d thought he’d kept intact by pretending things were platonic.

“I’m hurting you.” He settled on after a few painful moments of silence.

"No, you’re not.” Sam said softly when it became obvious Dean wasn’t going to be able to pull his thoughts together any more than that. Even if Dean wasn't sure, Sam was. He didn’t know everything, but he knew enough. "I'd stop you." 

"Sam-" Dean groaned softly, resting his elbows on his knees to support his head. He closed his eyes and tried to rub the rest of the night away behind his closed eyelids. When he opened his eyes again though, Sam was still there beside him, shivering in his pajama bottoms. 

"You can touch me. " Sam said quietly before his cheeks flushed bright again. "I don't mean... I mean like normal, like always. Not... I mean, that's okay. Right?" 

Dean swallowed hard. He didn’t have it in him to fight anymore. He wanted to want to say no. God, he wanted to tell Sam no and push him away because Sam was being sneaky and it was wrong even if neither of them seemed to care that it was wrong. Dean was trying to care, he was trying, but his resolve was fading.

He’d been fighting all day. Fighting not to panic as dad had taken him to the shack. Fighting not to vomit as he heard the snap of bones and the sound of the vampire choking repeatedly and undying on her own blood. Fighting and failing to keep himself from going out into the darkness with dad. Fighting to keep his terror in check because it was Sam who would take his place. 

On the other side of it all, he was so tired. He didn’t have it in him to fight Sam too. 

Against his better judgement, Dean nodded his head wordlessly. Sam stood up and stepped in front of him. Trembling and uncertain, Dean's hands found their way back to Sam's waist, circling quickly up around his shoulders. 

Sam closed his eyes and hummed contentedly. 

***

It happened in the cramped bathroom of a cheap motel at four thirty in the morning in Delaware with Dean's hand over Sam’s mouth and a 'quiet Sammy' whispered in Sam’s ear. Sam’s own hands were gripping hard onto Dean's arms while Dean held back Sam's shuddery moans and jerked him through the last waves of too-hot-too-cold. 

When Sam went still, Dean pulled his hand from Sam's mouth and gently lowered them both to the floor. Sam was breathing hard, but he was laughing quietly and had a startled smile on his face. Dean took about three seconds to drink in the bright expression on Sam’s features before his own gut filled with guilt and his organs turned over. He let go of Sam, trying to keep his hands steady as he stood up, fighting against his gag reflex as his stomach lurched. 

Sam was wrong. They’d both been so wrong. This was so far from okay.

His fingers were trembling as he reached out and turned on the tap. He needed to collect himself. He couldn't lose his head about this right now. Dad was on the other side of the door and if he screwed up now they'd both be in so much more trouble than he could even imagine. He rinsed his hands under the scorching water even though they'd been mostly dry after he'd gotten Sam off. The lack of physical evidence was a reminder of just how wrong what he'd just done really was. Sammy was eleven. Sammy was just a kid. Dean shook his head, trying to keep the thoughts from flooding him, and searched around for a cloth anyway, running it under the warm water. He passed it to Sam wordlessly. 

“Dean?” Sam questioned softly. 

“Clean up.” Dean replied in a broken whisper. It was more harsh sounding than he'd intended, colder than he'd meant, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to look at Sam, but he didn't want to look at himself either. This meant he was staring at the door awkwardly as Sam put himself back together and rearranged his clothes. Sam stood up, the flush on his skin was slowly returning to normal though he was still a little out of breath. 

"Dean?" He asked again, sounding nervous. The laughter was gone from his face and he was searching Dean’s features frantically with worried eyes. Dean cleared his throat and finally looked at Sam who was staring back with wide deer-in-headlights eyes. "Dean, come on. We're okay."

"Let's go to bed, Sam." Dean said, forcing his face to give Sam a small pained smile. "It's really late. Almost morning."

“Dean-” 

“ _Now _.” Dean almost growled at him. It took Sam by surprise. Dean looked like a wounded animal and Sam wanted to reach out and try to sooth but he didn’t know how to help.__

__Sam huffed in frustration, but nodded, taking Dean's lead not to talk about it. He stepped towards the door, unlatching it with a faint click before stepping back into the hotel room and heading back to bed. He close the door behind himself and he didn’t wait for Dean to follow._ _

__Dean grabbed the cloth from the floor and tossed it in the garbage, covering it with a few bunches of toilet paper from the roll. He wretched for at the thought that he was doing this to hide what he’d done from dad. It made his knees feel weak._ _

__He spotted an unused plastic cup still sitting on the counter and filled it with water. He sank down on the edge of the tub where Sam had been before and took several sips, trying to keep his hands busy, trying to just not focus on what had just happened. He’d have to leave the bathroom eventually, but he wasn’t ready yet._ _

__He stayed there until the cup was drained. Calmly, as though nothing was amiss, he got up throwing the cup in on top of the garbage can. It felt like covering up a crime scene leaving it all stuffed there concealed in the trash bin. There was a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach that he couldn't shake. One thought kept repeating itself in his mind like a small bomb going off each time: Sam was just a kid._ _

__He looked around the bathroom one last time, like a murderer making sure he'd scoured the crime scene. Then he followed Sam back to bed. Maybe if he slept it - the images from shack, the vampires, what had happened with Sam- would all disappear in the morning. He wasn’t optimistic about his chances._ _

__***_ _

__The next morning John gathered the supplies he would need to take out the nest. It would be a couple hours drive before he was where he needed to be and he didn’t plan to come back until the entire nest was exterminated. He estimated it would take about a week if he did it cautiously and picked them off in small groups, which was his plan. He’d gotten enough information from the vampire they’d tortured to know the comings and goings in the nest and the numbers he was up against. He was ready._ _

__He gave Dean the usual instructions, said that he'd be back in a few days, and left enough money for whatever they would need. Dean had tried to act natural, rattling off the rules as Dad repeated them like he did every time he left. John frowned before leaving, as though he could tell something was off._ _

__"Are you feeling okay?" He asked. Dean was surprised by the question._ _

__"Why?" Dean asked, feeling a flicker of fear shoot through his stomach. Dad could never find out, but what if he already knew? He didn't know how dad would know, but he was sure for a few terrible seconds that John did. He would never touch Sam again, wouldn’t even hug him or ruffle his hair, but he couldn't stand the idea of dad finding out what he'd done._ _

__"You took a couple good falls last night." Dad replied, shrugging. "You didn't hit your head or anything? Are you hurt?"_ _

__"No." Dean replied. He wasn't really hurt, a little sore, but he would heal quickly from the bumps and bruises. He was fine. Now, he wanted dad to leave so that he didn't have to keep pretending everything was normal and before Sam came in. He didn't think he'd be able to keep his face composed if Sam interrupted._ _

__"I left you some. You know where to find what you need if you need it, yeah?" Dad asked. He was looking away uncomfortably, fiddling with his bag. Dean nodded. He knew what dad was talking about. He didn't know exactly what variety dad had right now, but he knew they were some kind of prescription painkiller that dad managed to get from pharmacies along the way. They made him feel floaty and detached, and sometimes he pretended his injuries were more painful than they were to get some. He didn't fake it often, but when he was feeling too afraid to calm down or when he just wanted to escape he asked dad for them._ _

__Dad rarely said no when asked, though he didn’t usually offer. Dean suspected it was guilt. John never looked him in the eyes when he passed over the pills. Dean generally took them when given the chance. They made him feel incredible. Brushing up against Sam's skin while the painkillers numbed him and tingled throughout the rest of him felt amazing. He felt his cheeks warm and his stomach drop when Sam crossed his mind, and focused on his dad instead._ _

__"Yeah." Dean nodded. "I noticed."_ _

__"Don't take too many. Take care of Sam." John nodded back, before pulling the door open and disappearing through it._ _

__***_ _

__Dean avoided Sam almost completely for two and a half days before Sam couldn't handle it anymore. It was impressive how far away Dean could be while locked down in a two bed hotel room where the only escape was the tiny bathroom or the coat closet. Still, as impossible as it seemed, Dean was keeping a distance._ _

__While Dean was busy avoiding him because of the pit of guilt in his stomach, Sam spent most of the time feeling equally uneasy. He wanted Dean to just talk to him. Or look at him. Or pay attention to him more than just leaving what Sam needed out on the table for him. They didn't eat together. They didn't talk, Dean didn't even react when Sam changed the channels abruptly while Dean was watching something. Sam spent his time trying to find increasingly annoying ways to try to get Dean to break the quiet._ _

__Sam was close to giving up. He was sure there was nothing he could to to make Dean more uncomfortable, more annoyed. He'd dumped Dean's things on the floor, soaked the towels, poured out milk, left the TV on as loud as it could go for as long as he could stand- and Dean never afforded him even a glance. Sure, he took care of the things Sam did; replacing the milk with a full carton and asking for new towels from the front desk, but he never said a word. He'd even haphazardly thrown his own things back into his own bag without a dirty look or comment._ _

__While Sam tried to torment him, Dean mostly tried to ignore Sam and waited for dad to come back. The first night Dad was gone, he'd slept in dad's bed, trying not to meet Sam's eyes across the room as they got ready for bed. He didn't plan to crawl back into bed with Sam until dad’s return forced him to._ _

__Dean had spent most of today staring out the window thinking about the pills dad had tucked into the hidden pocket of his bag and how they made him feel numb. When the urge to go get one had proven overwhelming, he’d moved back to dad’s bed with a lore book to try to distract himself. He still wanted to take one now, but he knew that it was a bad idea. He’d taken them that first day and they had helped him calm down and the lazy half-awareness had made it easier to ignore Sam, but later he’d found himself in the shower, higher than he’d meant to get, thinking about Sam and one thing had led to another and now..._ _

__He felt guilty any time he even looked at Sam. He knew jerking off wasn't something you were supposed to do thinking of your kid brother. It made him more screwed up than what had happened in the bathroom the other night. He’d put the pills safely back into his bag and had gone about ignoring Sam with sheer willpower and self-directed reprimands. There was something wrong with him. He shouldn't be thinking about Sam like that. It was one thing to cuddle close, to relax against Sam’s warm body, but it was another to think about Sam - _that _\- way.___ _

____When Sam finally snapped and couldn’t take it any longer, he had no further plan than to throw a fit and tear the room down if he had to. He’d never done that to Dean before, usually Sam’s big blow ups were reserved for dad, but he couldn’t think of anything else to work with. He’d tried everything else. He stalked over to where Dean was sitting and decided to try reasoning one last time._ _ _ _

____“Come on Dean, this is stupid. Just talk to me?” Sam said, frustrated. Dean ignored him, looking instead down at the book in his hands. Sam felt a flash of white rage go through him. Dean wasn’t even reading. Dean didn’t even like to read. Dean didn’t get to ignore him. It wasn’t fair. He slammed his hand into Dean’s chest and pushed him off the edge of the bed. Dean, though taken by surprise, recovered quickly and got his feet safely underneath himself before falling to the floor._ _ _ _

____“Screw off, Sam.” Dean said, tossing the book on the bed and turning to walk away. Sam was so angry he couldn’t help but shake. He was determined that this conversation was going to happen one way or another and he was tired of Dean’s crap. Sam knew Dean would win, but he also knew that if he pissed Dean off enough Dean would want to gloat when he won and that he’d at least say more to Sam than ‘screw off’. At this point, Sam would take any attention he could get from Dean, even if it was full of bile._ _ _ _

____He reached out to push Dean again and soon they were both struggling to land solid punches and shoves. They didn’t have real fights with each other often but, when they did and really meant it, their combat training usually made for a dirty well matched scramble for dominance where anything was game. While they struggled for control, Sam jabbed his fingers against Dean’s throat and Dean slammed him up against the wall, cursing at him and coughing._ _ _ _

____“What’s wrong, Dean?” Sam baited. “Hard time ignoring me?”_ _ _ _

____“You little shit.” Dean grunted back struggling to stop Sam from shoving him off._ _ Sam was resourceful though, and he wrapped a leg around Dean’s knee. Sam jerked them both down until they were on the floor, competing again to get the upper hand. Sam felt Dean’s fist connect with the center of his chest and Dean’s knee pushed his stomach down so that his back was tight against the floor. He gasped at the impact, trying to push Dean off anew, but he couldn’t. _ _

____Dean was straddling him and had him pinned to the carpet. Dean’s hips and legs kept Sam from being able to pivot away and his arms had pushed Sam’s wrists up over his head so that he couldn’t get any leverage to fight back. Dean sat there panting, holding Sam still while he thrashed in vain. Once it was clear Sam was stuck and he wasn’t getting out, he stopped fighting and glared up at Dean with a defiant hate-filled expression he usually saved for John._ _ _ _

____“If I let you up are you going to start fighting me again?” Dean asked, still a little angry, but mostly just out of breath._ _ _ _

____“You going to start pretending I don’t exist again?” Sam shot back coldly. Dean rolled his eyes and then rolled sideways off of Sam, collapsing on his back on the floor beside him._ _ _ _

____“Why can’t you take a hint Sam?” Dean asked._ _ _ _

____“Why can’t you stop being a dick.” Sam said, it didn’t sound like a question though, just a statement of fact. Dean closed his eyes impatiently. When he didn’t reply, Sam started to speak again. “I know you’re mad or something.”_ _ _ _

____“M’not...mad Sam.” Dean groaned. He was mad, just not at Sam. He’d spent the last few days exiling himself from the things that made him relax because he’d gone too far and he’d taken too much and it wasn’t okay. That wasn’t Sam’s fault._ _ _ _

____“Then the ‘something’?” Sam demanded, sitting up and crossing his legs. Sam shifted around so that he was looking down at Dean. Sam wasn’t going to let him avoid talking now that he’d managed to get them started so Dean sighed an resigned himself._ _ _ _

____“Guilt.” Dean said slowly, folding his arms behind his head and looking up at the ceiling. It was much easier to address the ceiling than to look Sam in the eyes. Sam snorted in response, but Dean pressed on. “What happened wasn’t okay, Sam.”_ _ _ _

____“I said it was okay.”_ _ _ _

____“That doesn’t make it okay.”_ _ _ _

____“Then what would?” Sam asked, looking for a genuine answer. “I don’t regret it.”_ _ _ _

____“I’m your older brother Sam.” Dean moaned painfully. “I hurt you.”_ _ _ _

____“Do I look hurt?” Sam asked. “Look at me, Dean.”_ _ _ _

____It took Dean a couple of minutes to be able to do it, but he shifted his gaze slowly and blinked up at Sam. No, Sam didn’t look hurt. Sam probably didn’t even feel hurt, but Dean knew it wasn’t the visible kind of hurt that they were talking about. Sam was a kid and those weren’t the kinds of things you did with your kid brother. Something on Dean’s face must have given away his train of thought because when Sam spoke again it was like he was answering directly to Dean’s anxieties._ _ _ _

____“I knew what we were doing, Dean.” Sam said slowly. Dean wanted so badly for that to be true. Dean didn’t believe it though, and he felt like something evil. Sam was 11. He should have been having his first crushes and kid girlfriends, not having Dean get him off dirty and quick on the floor of a hotel bathroom._ _ _ _

____“I’m not going to apologize for something I liked.” Sam continued stubbornly when Dean didn’t reply. He sounded so sure and was looking down at Dean still laying on the floor. “You shouldn’t either.”_ _ _ _

____Dean bit his lip and sat up too, sitting up across from Sam so that their knees were almost touching and folding his hands in his own lap. Sam’s words were seductive and he wanted to listen. He didn’t want to feel guilty. He didn’t want to feel like he’d hurt Sam. The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt Sam and here was Sam insisting that he was okay and that Dean hadn’t hurt him. Here was Sam insisting that he’d wanted what had happened, that he understood what had happened, that he wasn’t upset about what had happened and that Dean should stop being upset too. Dean wanted to buy in so badly, but he wasn’t sure._ _ _ _

____“Look, you don’t have to be okay.” Sam sighed after Dean didn’t answer. “Just don’t ignore me. It didn’t hurt until you ignored me.”_ _ _ _

____Dean nodded slowly. Sam was right, it was over and they couldn’t take it back. Self-hatred wasn’t getting Dean anything other than an increasingly harder to deal with Sam and ignoring Sam was doing more damage than good. Maybe Dean wasn’t okay with it, but he could at least try to believe Sam when he said that he was. That was something Dean could maybe do._ _ _ _

____“Come on, Dean.” Sam coaxed. Sam reached out a hand between them, his palm outstretched in invitation and his wrist resting on Dean’s folded calves. Gingerly, Dean reached out, as though afraid to shatter the fragile sense of stability that had settled in his stomach and let Sam take his hand. “I promise I’m okay.”_ _ _ _

____Sam smiled at him, looking vulnerable, but very sure. This smile was nervous, but it was a real one with dimples and warm eyes. Dean returned it with a cautious smile of his own. He still felt sick in his gut. He still felt that lingering sense of wrong wrong wrong, but he trusted Sam._ _ _ _

____“Okay Sammy.” He whispered._ _ _ _

____Sam said they were okay, so they were okay._ _ _ _


	9. This isn’t normal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is 15  
> Sam is still 11  
> 3 months after the first time in Delaware. 
> 
> Summary:  
> ..something about the way he was looking at Sam… It was all Mary. It was like looking at a distorted reflection- younger, male- but unmistakably familiar and beautiful. It was like having the wind punched from his chest. It made his hands cold and sweaty. It hurt seeing that expression so carelessly on display. John caught glimpses of her ever so often, like she was haunting him through Dean’s expressions and mannerisms, but she’d never been so brightly and plainly broadcast before. 
> 
> John wasn’t exactly sure which of the emotions that Dean’s look had sparked low in his stomach to focus on - the rage, the sadness, the pain, the loss, or the aching want. John couldn’t even think about it, he just needed to act. He closed the hood of the Impala, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He needed to occupy Sam for a little bit. He could do that, easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> More underage wincest ahead and assume so indefinitely from here on out  
> Themes surrounding sexual abuse (parent-child).  
> The usual horrific violence. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, Kudos or comment!
> 
> Also...Happy Birthday Dean...even though this chapter is not kind. :S (It’s not his birthday in the chapter, but it is today when I’m posting!)

John needed to find the energy to get back to the boys. It was only about 7pm, but he’d been hunting all day since it was easiest to hunt wendigos when it was light out. He’d found a pair of them when he’d only expected one. The second one had taken him by surprise. They were nearly impossible to kill and wicked fast. He’d killed them both, though the struggle to do so without getting lacerated by their sharp claws had only been somewhat successful. 

He’d made it back to the car on his own, but he was in rough shape. He sat there for a few minutes breathing heavily and finding ways to apply pressure to his wounds. His injuries weren’t going to kill him, but the wounds were dirty and jagged. They needed proper care to avoid infection and he wouldn’t be able to do it on his own. 

He dug his phone out of his pocket and called the hotel. Sam answered, handing the call over to Dean without argument when he heard the sharp edge in John’s voice. Dean listened carefully as John listed off the medical supplies he needed ready when he arrived. He hung up and tossed the phone on the seat beside him, leaning his head back against the leather for a minute. He turned the key in the ignition and started the drive back to the motel. 

He arrived hour later, pulling into the space crooked, but between the lines and cutting the engine. He gingerly pulled himself from the driver’s seat, ignoring his bag in the back and focusing instead on getting himself into the room while drawing as little attention as possible. He’d slipped his jacket on as he’d gotten out of the car and it covered most of the blood on his clothes, but there was nothing he could do about the stiffness of his movements. 

Dean had been waiting and met him halfway to the room to take some of John’s weight onto his shoulders. Inside, Sam was already unpacking John’s med kit out on the table and then he ducked into the bathroom to get some towels. When Dean deposited John into the kitchen chair and helped peel back the jacket, he paled at the large red stain bloomed across John’s half torn shirt. He couldn’t see anything with dad’s shirt in the way, but he knew it was bad. He wondered how dad had held pressure on it the whole drive. 

“Stabbed through?” He asked, trying to keep his voice even, but speaking quietly so that Sam couldn’t overhear. He couldn’t hold his tone steady, even though he was trying to keep his voice even there was a quiver in his words. 

“Just scratched up.” John replied, shaking his head with a reassuring smile. Dean was nervous, probably imagining the worst. He needed Dean to relax and the best way John could do that was to try to downplay the severity. He knew Dean could tell it was worse than that, but the point was to keep Dean calm. Dean was experienced and competent enough that he could handle the stitching and bandaging on his own as long as he stayed focused and clear headed. “Bitch was faster than I thought.”

“Dead?” Dean asked. 

John nodded and sat up, wincing as he started to undo the buttons of his ruined shirt. He was going to be sore for a while, and this was going to be very unpleasant, but it needed to happen. There wasn’t a hospital for miles, and he didn’t want the uneasy questions about how he’d gotten injuries that looked like that. He rested back against the chair, pulling away his own makeshift bandages he’d used to stem the blood flow. 

Sam was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin across from John at the table, his eyes were wide and for once he seemed content to observe, not interrupting or asking or commenting. The blood didn’t really gross him out, but he was glad Dean was doing it instead of him. Dad’s injuries were so much more intense than the minor ones he’d stitched up on Dean. 

Dean took a seat in the remaining chair, pulling it sideways to John’s so that he wouldn’t have to reach across to stitch. He had one of the damp towels Sam had brought and was already starting to use it as gently as he could to clean and sanitize the wound on John’s side. John hissed through clenched teeth as Dean passed over a particularly minced section of skin. Dean nodded as though in answer and gestured for the bottle of whiskey he’d set on the counter, just in case. Sam scrambled up and handed it to him before settling back into his place opposite John. When Dean handed him the bottle, John tossed back a couple shots worth of swallows immediately and kept it close. 

It took Dean a long time to clean, treat, and stitch dad’s side. The gash was long, and in some places the skin was torn several different directions at once. He did his best, and afterwards applied as much antibiotic cream as he could gently massage into the skin without getting it into the wounds. Sam helped him with the bandages when he was done. Now that the worst of it was over, Dean’s hands were shaking too hard to hold the roll and that was something Sam could do, even with less practice. 

Dean washed his fingers in the sink, knowing he wasn’t done, but not wanting the red on his hands longer than needed. He drank a small glass of water and waited. When Sam stepped back, Dean sat down across from John again and went back to work. The rest of John’s wounds were very minor; not much more than scrapes that at worst only required a couple small stitches here or there to help reduce scarring. 

When dad was stitched and cleaned up, Dean and Sam helped John across the room to the bed closest to the bathroom. His breathing was still a little shallow with pain, but he was steadier than before. Sam started cleaning up the kitchenette, wiping up the blood off the floor and throwing bloodstained towels into a black garbage bag. Dean had turned back to John’s bag and was searching through the side compartment. He came back to the bed with a plastic cup of water and the bottle of prescription pills John kept stowed in his belongings. 

“They’ll help you sleep. You need it.” Dean shrugged, shaking two into his palm and holding them out to John. It was a weird reversal of roles, but Dean thought it was probably best. Dad was likely in a lot of pain and the whiskey he’d slugged back to get through the worst of Dean’s first aid probably wasn’t doing much to help. 

“Gotta move on.” John said, shaking his head. He wanted to push forward, even though he was exhausted and the pills would definitely make him sleep. He wanted a couple hours of rest, tops, and then to be on the road. Still, there was a weariness in his bones. He was satisfied with the hunt he’d been on, but it had been a difficult and dangerous one. 

“It’s dead. No one’s asking questions. We’re safe here for now.” Dean mumbled low, trying to ignore Sam’s curious gaze from across the room. “Not going to hurt anything to rest up here a couple days. Do a supply run before the next hunt.” 

It was easy to see reason in Dean’s words. John had had a few more close calls than he’d anticipated and he didn’t really know when he’d be feeling top form again. He hadn’t bothered to mention to Dean that there’d been more than one wendigo, but Dean was right all the same, they were dead. He wasn’t in any condition to take a hunt right away anyway. 

Wordlessly, he took the pills and swallowed them dry, pondering how Dean’s primary instinct was always to take care. He took care of research when asked. He helped take care of hunts. He took care of John when John was too hurt to do it himself. He took care of Sam. He took care of making sure the room and groceries got paid. He took care of prying eyes and unwelcome questions. 

John settled back on the bed, watching Dean as he moved around the room. He’d left the cup of water on the bedside table and was helping Sam clean up the rest of the mess. John always relied on Dean, one way or another, and the boy rarely really let him down. He was obedient to a fault, resourceful, and easy to control. John closed his eyes, aware of but unable to make out the whispered conversation across the room. If Sam had a problem, Dean would take care of it.

John was dead to the world for almost two days. 

***

 

They stayed at the motel almost a full week after John woke up. Recovery was always John’s least favourite part of the job. He hated being down and unable to fight his way back up. Dean had kept him well supplied in whiskey for the pain in the first couple days after he’d woken, and he’d healed considerably well. At some point while he’d been unconscious, one or both of the boys had cleaned and applied new bandages to his wounds because he found no sign of infection over the area Dean had stitched. That first day of consciousness he’d felt like a bulldozer had run him over, but now he only suffered with a bit of an ache and a lingering stiffness he knew would heal in time. 

He wasn’t a hundred percent yet, but John was restless and so he’d started looking for signs of something amiss. Something less intense, but that would be productive in the downtime. He’d found what he suspected was a haunting a state over and he planned to go take a look. After breakfast, John had started the boys training and then once they were underway, had gone to look over the Impala. A rattling sound that he hadn’t been able to identify had developed and he wanted to take a look before they took off again. 

An hour wasted leaned over the hood of the car left John looking up thoughtfully from over the engine of the Impala and tucking the wrench he’d been using into his back pocket. He wiped his greasy hands on the rag draped over his shoulder. He still didn’t know what the problem was, but he was fairly certain the rattling sound he’d been hearing was nothing serious. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the engine itself, and the car was humming in the same familiar way as always as the engine purred below him. He shoved off the car and went around to the driver’s side, sliding into the seat and listening hard for the rattle. 

Sure enough there was a soft, but ever present, little rattling noise. He was out of ideas. He’d already emptied the dash and checked the door handles. There was nothing wrong under the hood, but the clicking little rattle persisted. He leaned back against the seat, ready to give up, when his eyes fell on the little vent on the passenger’s side. 

He popped the vent open and looked inside. It was too dark to really see, but he felt something kind of pointy and definitely out of place. He managed to hook it between two of his fingers and he pulled out one of Sam’s green toy soldiers. He frowned at it, wondering when and how the boys had managed to lodge it there. He listened hard for the clicking, but it was gone. He rolled his eyes, annoyed, but amused, at the source of the rattle, before chucking the figure into the backseat with the rest of Sam’s things spread out across the leather. He clipped the grate closed and turned off the car. 

As he climbed out of the car, he could hear Sam laughing not far off. He’d left the boys sparring and figured it had likely devolved into playful wrestling by now. It was the quality of the sound caught his attention. Sam didn’t laugh often, not genuinely. He smirked or huffed a laugh when Dean said something outrageous or funny or when he found something that appealed to his sarcasm, but real laughter was rare. It was usually reserved for things he found truly hilarious, like when Dean fell for one of Sam’s pranks or when he found a particularly witty joke. 

John looked around, curious about the source of Sam’s mirth. He caught sight of them where he’d left them on the grass, but he was too far away to hear the exchange between the two boys. It struck John how domestic and normal they seemed right now, him, working on his car, while his boys roughhoused. If they’d been outside of a house instead of a mostly abandoned hotel parking lot in the middle of nowhere and if the boys had been wrestling over a football instead of as a result of combat training, they’d have passed like a normal family having a lazy Sunday afternoon. 

The thought made him pause and watching the boys for a few more seconds with a small sad smile. With a clever kick to Dean’s heel, Sam sent Dean falling back and landing on the grass. Sam was already stretching down a hand in invitation to help him up when Dean looked up at him, half-pissed and half-proud. Dean’s expression resolved itself pretty quickly and he accepted Sam’s hand. As Sam helped pull him back up, Sam said something. Whatever the youngest Winchester had said, it caused Dean to smile. 

Really smile. 

Bright, and unhindered, not at all touched with Dean’s usual skepticism and caution. John couldn’t remember a time when the smile on Dean’s face had been spontaneous or actually reached his eyes. This was smile did though, it was different. This illuminated every corner and feature on Dean’s face. His eyes were bright, his teeth slightly parted, his lips drawn back and curved upwards. It was warm, calm, and open, and when Dean laughed an easy response back to Sam, it was too much. 

John swallowed against a flash of heat that flared in his stomach and lashed bitter and stinging at the inside of his throat. He’d never seen Dean smile like that. He’d seen Dean smile plenty, but Dean usually smiled with a purpose. To get something he wanted from someone, to put Sam at ease, to charm people he wanted to impress. Dean used his smile like a weapon to keep other people at arm's length. This was different. 

John’s insides were turning over as though flooded by an icy cold river. He didn’t know what it was, but something about Dean’s face, something about the way he was looking at Sam… It was all Mary. It was like looking at a distorted reflection- younger, male- but unmistakably familiar and beautiful. It was like having the wind punched from his chest. It made his hands cold and sweaty. It hurt seeing that expression so carelessly on display. John caught glimpses of her ever so often, like she was haunting him through Dean’s expressions and mannerisms, but she’d never been so brightly and plainly broadcast before. 

John wasn’t exactly sure which of the emotions that Dean’s look had sparked low in his stomach to focus on - the rage, the sadness, the pain, the loss, or the aching want. John couldn’t even think about it, he just needed to act. He closed the hood of the Impala, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He needed to occupy Sam for a little bit. He could do that, easily. 

“Sammy, come here.” John called. Both boys looked over at him in tandem. They both jogged forward, curious. Dean’s eyes had already clouded back over, but the damage was already done. John pulled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to the younger boy. “There’s a convenience store and gas station up the road. Go get some snacks. We’re heading out in an hour.” 

“Yes sir.” Sam said, taking the money and pocketing it. Dean turned to follow him across the parking lot, but John reached out and caught his shoulder. 

“Dean, stay. I need help packing up the room.” There was a coldness in John’s voice that hadn’t been there that morning. Dad was furious and Dean wasn’t alone in noticing the change. 

“Dean-” Sam had stopped and was looking over his shoulder, his expression somewhere between curious and alarmed. He looked like he was going to say something that was going to get himself in trouble if given the chance. Dean had no idea why dad was blindsiding him, but he didn’t want it to be worse than it had to be and he didn’t want dad and Sam to get into another one of their increasingly frequent screaming matches. 

“Pie, if they’ve got it.” Dean smiled gently, taking Sam’s attention from John. Sam looked like he was going to argue, so Dean turned away and walked back to the hotel room. Sam couldn’t argue if he didn’t give him the chance. It didn’t take John long to come in behind him locking the door, Sam presumably on his way down the road. John was already peeling off his belt as he closed the small gap in the curtains. Dean hated that belt. He hated all of John's belts. 

“What did I do?” Dean asked, eyeing the belt buckle dangling from John’s hand and backing up until he was pressed against the wall. Dean wracked his brain for anything he could have forgotten, but he was coming up blank. This was completely out of the ordinary, and so completely full of risks. Usually John was more careful about time and place, but he seemed beyond that right now so Dean was worrying for them. If Sam came back before they were through...if someone overheard them...if housekeeping knocked at the wrong moment… This happening right now, aside from personal preservation, was a horrible idea. 

Suddenly, it didn’t matter because it was happening.

“Dad-” Dean stammered as John crossed the room. 

“Stop.” John replied, snapping the buckle against Dean’s stomach though the thin material of his shirt in warning. It was a heavy thump to his abdomen, though it didn’t really hurt he couldn’t help but flinch. He felt John’s hand fist into the collar of his shirt and wrench him sideways away from the wall. 

“Shirt off. Hurry up.” John said gruffly, pulling roughly at Dean’s collar before letting go. Dean opened his mouth to try to protest just once, but dad shot him another glare and then reminded him of their situation. “It’s only a ten minute walk to the store, Dean. Shirt off.” 

Dean didn’t want to speculate in detail about what would happen if Sam got back before dad was finished. He shed the t-shirt, dropping it at his feet in quiet defeat. He wanted this over quickly, so he would just have to accept whatever John had in mind. John hummed his approval and turned him around with large hands gripping Dean’s hips, his hold tight and rough. John’s fist closed around the back of Dean’s neck, holding him in place. 

Dean flinched, surprised by the belt being doubled up and the force of the first blow. John’s fingers dug in tighter around his neck when Dean lost his balance, keeping him from pitching forward. A cry had escaped his throat before he could clamp down around the sound and stop it. As another whip of the belt curled around his side where the flesh was tender, John’s thumb raked through his hair on the nape on his neck, almost as if to sooth away Dean’s complaints. 

“Why?” Dean whispered as fire flared across his skin. He was trying hard not to fall forward and lose his balance as John pulled back again. 

“You’re there.” John said sounding shredded. His voice had a hungry edge to it Dean had never heard before. The strap was still as John wiped some sweat from his forehead. He could hear John fiddling with the belt and he had a nasty suspicion he was about to get a few more blows with the buckle end. “ Looking like that.” 

Dean felt the belt buckle curl around his side and connect with his ribs. He tried to follow John’s rhythm and brace himself when he could, but Dean very quickly found himself losing connection to what was happening. He was there, but he didn’t care and soon he wouldn’t even feel it. A few more strikes and his brain would check out until it was over. Dean didn’t realize how pliant and unfocused he’d gone until John released his neck and he pitched forward onto the bed. Dean landed face-down and boneless. 

The jolt had brought him closer to the surface of lucidity. He could feel John’s legs pinning his own to the edge of mattresses where he was bent double. He became dimly aware that dad wasn’t hitting him anymore. Dean’s vision erupted in sparks as John traced a hand down the line of his back, feeling the warm and newly reddened skin. It took Dean a moment to realize that John was tracing the raised edges of the marks he’d just left behind as though committing them to memory. 

John felt rather than heard Dean’s sharp gasp of breath as he traced across one of the lashes down low on Dean’s back. He watched the muscles in Dean’s shoulders shift and tense as the boy jerked under his touch. He did it again, watching the same tremor run down the length of Dean’s spine as an unwilling wimper was forced through Dean’s lips. Dean quickly turned his face to the mattress to stifle the sound, as though ashamed. There was something about the reaction that John found satisfying. He wanted to keep needling Dean, making him make those little noises in the back of his throat against his will. 

John had never savored it like this before. This was delicious and he wasn’t exactly sure where to categorize the heat and want coursing through his body. Every sound Dean made released a rush of arousal inside him and he didn’t want to acknowledge. All John knew was that he wanted to draw it out, listen to Dean’s breathing and make it catch and stutter. 

But John didn’t have time. 

John backed some of his weight off the boy, swallowing back his regret. He withdrew his fingers from Dean’s back and squeezed his hip once, almost as if in warning, before the belt descended on Dean again. Dean kept his face turned into the quilt, forcing himself to keep breathing even though he didn’t want to stick around for this anymore. He wanted to black out, and he knew how to make himself. Dissociating, letting his brain go foggy while John hit him, was one thing. He could force himself back from going blank, or at least move around even if he still felt disconnected. Blacking out completely though? Losing consciousness to escape what was happening right now? 

Dean didn’t have time.

Dean guessed John knew they were pushing their luck too, because he was being clumsy and fast. It meant that Dean was being clipped with the buckle in places John would usually avoid hitting him too hard, like across his kidneys and around his side. Even though it seemed to drag on, Dean could tell John was losing momentum.

It was only a couple more minutes before John’s weight lifted from him completely and the belt went slack. Dean turned his head back to the side sluggishly looking to John in his peripheral vision for some sort of affirmation that they were done. John was leaning against the wall opposite him, with the belt dangling loosely in his grip. There were a few angry red stripes standing out on John’s arms where he’d caught himself with the belt a couple of times during his frenzied assault. John was looking at him, but wasn’t giving him any indication that he should move, so Dean didn’t. 

John’s eyes raked slowly over the teenager laid out in front of him. He was dimly horrified by his own half-hard cock in his jeans and the cold unsteady sweat breaking out over his body. He had no idea if the boy had even noticed it when John had been pressed tight against him. Dean had spaced out, going wherever he went in his head when he went vacant. Looking at him now, Dean’s face was still completely blank, all signs of the fleeting expression that had caused this erased and buried. He was relatively sure that Dean hadn’t noticed much since before John had tossed him down onto the bed. That suited him just fine.

John’s stomach still felt twisted. He still wanted to hurt Dean. He wanted to hurt Dean, drink, and fuck until he couldn’t remember what Dean’s face had looked like with her smile on his lips. John couldn’t though. He eyed what he’d done, still hungry, but that would have to do for now. 

John stood up from the wall and walked to the bathroom, sliding his belt back into the loops of his jeans as he went. He splashed some water over his own face, composing himself, before returning to the room and grabbing his med-kit. When he ordered Dean to stand up, the boy didn’t move right away, but very slowly pulled himself together blinking a few times as though processing the command. Hesitantly, Dean rolled over and gingerly stood up, carefully avoiding the hand John had offered to steady himself. 

John turned Dean around in front of him again with hands lingering on Dean’s hip and shoulder. He looked over the mess he’d left behind more carefully. He’d barely broken skin, though some of the places the belt had connected would likely sting for a day or so. John took care of it quickly and efficiently, not letting his hands linger longer than they had to. Dean seemed oblivious, staring numbly forward. He stepped away with a final squeeze to Dean’s shoulder and backed off to let Dean come back to himself quietly. 

Dean didn’t pay John any attention as John started to gather their things. Free from John’s attention and touch, Dean went through his own belongings as methodically as possible and pulled on one of the softer looser button downs he owned. It was going to be a long drive to wherever they were headed next, it always was, and experience had taught him to dress loosely to minimize discomfort.

Dean didn’t care to double check dad’s work like he normally would. He just waited until John had Sam’s bag ready too and then took it to the car with his own. Dean slid into the passenger’s side of the front seat of the Impala after depositing both bags into the trunk. He felt very numb and still disconnected from his body. He was glad for it. He didn’t want to have any feelings right now and dad hadn’t offered him any drugs. He couldn’t stop his mind playing dad’s words over in his head.

_You’re there, looking like that. ___

__He stared down at his hands in his lap. He didn’t know how he was supposed to control something like that to stop whatever had caused dad’s outburst. He couldn’t change the way he looked. He wasn’t even sure what John had meant._ _

__***_ _

__In the time it had taken him to go to the store and come back, something had happened. Dean was wearing different clothes and he’d already been waiting in the front seat of the Impala. Dean’s head was bowed and he hadn’t looked up as dad and Sam had settled into the car. Sam couldn’t see his face well, but the set of Dean’s shoulders was rigid and his reflection’s expression in the mirror was distant._ _

__Sam had never hated the back seat of the Impala more than he did right now. Generally he enjoyed the extra space to spread out his stuff or stretch out and nap, but right now Dean was starving for help in front of him. Dean had pushed him so far away in the last few months after what had happened between them in Delaware that the moments where he knew Dean would openly accept affection were rare._ _

__It wasn’t like much had really changed. They still flung themselves out to watch TV, not caring about whose limbs were where. They still trained together, Dean still teased him and paid attention to him. In most ways,Dean still treated him with the same familiarity as before- usually a little annoyed, but always affectionate. Even so, Dean had set up barriers around himself that hadn’t been there before. They weren’t there now, had crumbled away with whatever had happened while Sam was gone and Sam wanted so badly to touch._ _

__Dad was here though, and they were headed somewhere, it didn’t matter where. Sam leaned against the locked car door and wedged his hand in between the door and the front seat. It was uncomfortable and he was probably going to get pins and needles, but Sam slipped his hand gently onto Dean’s shoulder._ _

__Dean’s fingers jerked in his lap vaguely in the direction of Sam’s hand, but he didn’t take his hands from where they were folded. It was the only sign of recognition that Dean gave. Sam’s slipped his fingers under Dean’s collar and brushed gently against his skin. It was the best he could do with the limited reach he had. Dean seemed to defrost a little under Sam’s touch, and leaned his head against the window, pressing his cheek against Sam’s hand. Sam didn’t know whether Dean would go to sleep or not, but he resolved to keep his arm where it was until Dean pulled away first._ _

__Sam hooked the bag he’d brought back from the store with him and rummaged around inside of it for a few seconds looking for the bottle of juice he’d picked out for himself. He didn’t bother taking out the rest or handing up Dean’s share. Instead he left it for later when Dean might be more likely to notice and eat it._ _

__***  
John was so loaded he didn’t care if he made it back to the car or ended up here on the floor. He was drinking to avoid facing that parts of himself that had roared to life when he’d pushed Dean down onto that bed. The part that had coiled tight wanting to spring as the boy lay limp against the mattress. He was drinking to convince himself his body’s reaction had been adrenaline, predatory, but not perverse. It was taking a lot of work and alcohol to keep his mind occupied and away from the dangerous thoughts that had been swirling inside him. _ _

__All over a stupid careless smile._ _

__He downed another shot of whiskey and signaled the bartender. He was well past drunk, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even care if he died. Dean would take care of Sam if he did. Dean took care of a lot of things. Dying would solve a lot of his problems._ _

__“Leave the bottle.” He muttered to the man pouring his drink. The bartender nodded, setting the bottle down on the counter and going to tend to the other customers at the end of the bar. He was just settling in to get acquainted with his new whiskey and to continue ruminating when he was interrupted._ _

__“Planning on someone joining you for that bottle?” A voice asked over his shoulder. He turned to follow the sound and found someone standing beside him. It was a woman with curly long blond hair. She was young, legal but barely, and wearing jeans and a red button down that hugged her curves so tightly it didn’t leave much to the imagination. That was okay, John didn’t have a lot of patience for imagining at the moment. He shook his head and gestured to the seat next to him._ _

__“Just you.” John replied with as warm of a smile as he could muster, before gesturing to the bartender and requesting another glass. She settled in on the barstool beside him and he slid the second shot glass, newly filled, sideways to her as he raised his own._ _

__“Got a name?” She asked, tipping the first shot back easily._ _

__“Not really.” He hummed as he poured them both another. “Just passing through. Be long gone this time tomorrow.”_ _

__“That’s okay.” She purred._ _

__It didn’t take them long to finish the bottle at the rate they were going. They didn’t talk about much. They flirted and avoided each others’ questions and John was beyond caring who she was. Whatever story they wanted to make up for the occasion was fine. Sure, he was still a marine. Yea, his recent injuries were from being at sea. Of course, he was on leave healing up before shipping out again. That could be as true as whatever lie she was feeding him back while he pretended to listen through the rushing sound of the alcohol in his ears._ _

__“Why don’t we get out of here?” She asked once the bottle was empty. John wordlessly threw another twenty on the counter and followed her out._ _

__***_ _

__Sam tossed the remote down on the edge of his bed and rolled over, watching Dean. Dean was asleep, laying on his side on the opposite bed. He’d gone to bed about an hour after John had dropped them here, but he wasn’t resting well. He was frowning, mumbling and twitching in his sleep. Sam wanted to smooth Dean’s brow where he was worrying, but he didn’t think he could reach across the gap between the two beds even if he tried._ _

__They’d been occupying separate beds for about three months now, ever since the night in the bathroom. Sam didn’t really like it, but he didn’t argue. Dean always slept in the other bed now unless dad was staying with them. In that case, Dean had started sleeping on a cot or on the couch. Sam was pretty sure it was a decision that had come from Dean, not dad, but he didn’t really want to know. Dad was always telling him to grow up, to stop hanging off of Dean, to fall in place quietly like Dean did. It was easier to blame dad. If he did, he could pretend Dean missed him too._ _

__There had been a few exceptions to their new sleeping arrangement- the nights since when Dean had come back shaking and had wordlessly climbed into bed with him, tracing the lines of Sam’s body and holding him close. Even though Dean was upset those times, Sam missed the physical contact enough that he’d been selfishly glad. Dean was always gone when Sam woke up the next morning, boundaries carefully back in place._ _

__Dean came to consciousness very gradually, but didn’t open his eyes. He’d been drifting in and out restlessly for a few hours now, having weird dreams. His heartbeat was erratic and his hands were sweaty, but all he could remember was blurring colour and loud sounds. He swallowed tightly, reminding himself that whatever it had been, it hadn’t been real._ _

__He was awake enough to have that familiar knot of anxiety starting to coil spring-tight, ready for action, in his stomach. It was almost always there, ready for whatever he’d find when he opened his eyes. He wasn’t panicking, but this time he didn’t think he’d be able to coax himself back towards sleep._ _

__He knew Sam was watching him. Part of why he’d gone to bed so early, other than feeling sluggish with his body still distant and disconnected even after hours in the Impala, was to avoid talking about it with Sam. It wasn’t like he could try to convince Sam that it had been training and he didn’t have another excuse for the strangeness. Sam had been gone less than thirty minutes. He resisted the urge to scrub an unsettled hand over his face, not wanting to give away that he was awake._ _

__Sam knew him too well though, by now Sam probably knew he was awake and just wasn’t saying anything. They were waiting each other out. Dean sighed and turned his head, looking across the gap between the beds to see Sam, already sitting, blinking back at him. He waited, willing Sam not to break the silence. Sam was returning his gaze with the worlds bitchiest puppy dog eyes, simultaneously pissed off and pleading. It was a look Sam had crafted through trial by fire, and it was one that always shook Dean’s resolve when Sam used it against him._ _

__Dean knew immediately from that look that Sam wouldn’t let it go. Any second, Sam would open his mouth and say or ask something about how fucked up Dean had been in the Impala. He’d ask, and Dean would have to find a believable lie to cover all the weirdness. Dean would lie, and Sam wouldn’t believe him anyway-_ _

__“Do you want to watch a movie?” Sam asked, taking Dean by surprise with a question he hadn’t been braced for. It wasn’t any of the questions Sam wanted to ask, but it was one that wouldn’t make Dean roll over and ignore him until the both fell asleep. Dean’s face was full of tension and apprehension, but he seemed mostly solid again. He’d wanted Sam’s touch earlier when they’d been in the car, but Sam knew Dean was likely to shy away if he tried now._ _

__“What?” Dean asked, sitting up halfway to get a better look at Sam._ _

__“There’s nothing good on. You can pick.” Sam replied, as he tossed the remote across the gap. It landed with a soft thud on Dean’s stomach._ _

__“Generous.” Dean muttered still on guard, and then picked the remote up to click through the channels while Sam sat balled up against the other bed’s headboard._ _

__The silence was very thick, and while not exactly uncomfortable, Sam’s unspoken questions were just as present between them as if they’d been screamed at the top of Sam’s lungs. Determined to ignore them, Dean settled on something that looked at least mildly interesting and set the remote on the bedside table. They watched the tv for almost forty five minutes without saying much of substance, ever so often commenting back and forth about whatever was happening on the screen._ _

__“Snacks from earlier in the fridge.” Sam informed him, not looking away from the screen when Dean returned from the washroom during the third commercial break. Dean felt his stomach growl in response. Sam smiled back, as if his stomach and Sam were having a conversation without him, before he added, “Apple.”_ _

__Dean wasn’t going to say no to it now that he remembered it was there. He grabbed the bag from the mini fridge by the door, checking over the other contents. Sam was generally pretty reliable when it came to junk food, but ever so often he made choices, like dehydrated vegetable chips, that made Dean pretend for a little while that they weren’t related. Concluding that this loot was acceptable, Dean returned to the space between the beds._ _

__“You can come sit over here if you want.” Sam offered quietly, reading Dean’s face as he hesitated between dropping the bag on his or Sam’s mattress. “It’s alright.”_ _

__“Sammy.” Dean said, sounding more strangled than he wanted to admit._ _

__“Or you can split the stuff up.” Sam said equally quiet and gentle, shrugging his shoulders easily. Sam knew Dean still wanted contact even though he was holding himself together okay. He could read it in the set of his brother’s shoulders and the restlessness of his hands, but he didn’t know how firmly Dean’s walls had been cemented back in place. “That’s fine too.”_ _

__Dean frowned at Sam’s tone. Sam had a tendency to be passive aggressive, at times muttering similar sentiments with obvious distaste, but he didn’t sound like that right now. Sam just sounded like either option was fair and...well...an option. Dean rolled his eyes at himself. This was stupid. This was Sam. It was just a movie. He dropped the bag in front of Sam, and then crawled across the mattress to settle on Sam’s other side against the headboard._ _

__“Are you ok?” Sam asked after they’d finished most of the bag’s contents and had dropped the bag, full of empty wrappers, onto the bedside table. They had slouched so low they were almost touching. They’d been inching closer as the movie had gone on, but Dean hadn’t pulled away. The movie had long since ended and they were watching some sitcom that neither of them were familiar with, but they weren’t all that invested in it._ _

__“Yeah. I’m fine Sammy.” Dean said, keeping his face concentrated on the TV. It had switched to playing a dish soap commercial that featured dancing dishes and harmonizing sponges._ _

__“But you weren’t earlier. In the car.” Sam observed. “We’re ignoring that right?”_ _

__Dean shrugged and didn’t reply. Sam nodded, If he prodded further, Dean would ignore him, or refuse to come near next time. He changed tactics._ _

__“Lay down with me.” Sam murmured, sighing heavily and letting himself slip another centimeter into his slouch._ _

__Dean felt Sam’s shoulder touch his own and shivered a little. Dean knew he should get up and go back to his own bed, but he didn’t want to. He’d been keeping himself so far away and it was nice being near Sam. It was always nice being near Sam. It was one of the universal truths of his life. He’d been distancing himself from Sam when Sam was really one of the only things that made him feel human sometimes._ _

__“I don’t know.” Dean mumbled back, trying to find the willpower to stretch out his legs and go back to his own side of the room._ _

__“You want to.” Sam guessed quietly._ _

__“Yeah.” Dean exhaled painfully, but he shook his head._ _

__“Just sleep.” Sam promised earnestly. “Nothing else.”_ _

__Dean flinched guiltily. There. Sam had mentioned it. After fighting it out on the carpet and agreeing to stop avoiding Sam, he’d dodged talking about it or acknowledging it out loud. Even the nights he’d come to bed after dad had been through with him, he’d slipped into Sam’s space for a while and then carefully left distance between them on the mattress once he’d gotten himself back under control. Now, Sam had pulled their secret out from where Dean had crammed it away and had slapped it down in front of them._ _

__“Jesus. I’m not a chick, Sammy.” Dean snorted, trying to stall long enough to cram the lid back on the box that kept all the confused feelings that were tied to Sammy._ _

__“It’ll help with the dreams.” Sam offered. They both knew that much was true. Sam knew he’d won before Dean even opened his mouth to reply. Sam knew he’d won before Dean had even figured it out himself. There was surrender there in the corner of Dean’s eye, unwilling and cautious, but there none the less._ _

__Sam got up without waiting for another reply and turned off the TV, leaving them in relative darkness. When he came back, he pushed the covers down and slipped underneath them, holding the corner of the blanket for Dean. Dean hesitated, but then unfolded his legs and let Sam throw the covers over him too._ _

__Sinking into the bed beside Sam when he wasn’t struggling against himself to draw breath or to stop trembling felt like coming home after weeks away. He was aware of the lashes on his back from dad’s unexplained outburst, a constant dull reminder, but he didn’t care about them right now. Sam had always had that effect on him, numbing the bad so fully that he couldn’t care about it. Dean closed his eyes, feeling Sam snake closer to him and wrap a leg around his._ _

__Dean’s muscle memory took over, easily hitching Sam closer and starting to trace over Sam’s back with his fingers before he realized what he was doing. That was okay though. The conflict and turmoil in his head was always quieter and less concerning the closer Sam was to him. Sam stretched out languidly beside him nuzzling insistently when Dean’s hands paused. It reminded Dean of snuggling a cat, but without the consequences of sneezing and itchy eyes._ _

__Sam’s breath was warm on the side of his neck, ticking his cheek. Dean tucked his hand under the hem of Sam’s t-shirt, smoothing a palm over Sam’s hip and feeling the younger boy take in a quick breath in response. He let his fingers linger there, pressing lightly, but just hard enough not to tickle Sam while listening to his own heartbeat picking up in his chest. He heard Sam swallow, breath going uneven as it ghosted across Dean’s throat._ _

__“Off.” Dean tugged at the fabric of Sam’s shirt, covering his pinky finger._ _

__“Finally.” Sam breathed, sounding relieved. Without waiting for further instructions or for Dean to change his mind, Sam sat up quickly and ripped the t-shirt off over his head dropping it on top of the covers beside them. He settled back down against Dean, just as urgently, afraid that at any moment Dean would change his mind and shove him away._ _

__As Dean reached for the bare skin of Sam’s shoulders and waist, Sam didn’t need to be worried. Dean wasn’t going anywhere. Dean had known it was a bad idea to cross that divide between the beds even as he’d talked himself into it, but now that he was here he couldn’t pull himself away. He’d never really been able to resist Sam indefinitely._ _

__Sometimes Dean could keep his resolve until Sam lost interest in whatever he was after or the opportunity for it had passed, but that was always more of a waiting game than a victory. This thing between them was more complicated. It wasn’t some random toy or book that they couldn’t afford, or a trip away from the hotel somewhere they weren’t allowed to go. They relied on each other too much and spent too much time together for Sam to forget or lose interest. Sam had pushed him for weeks for more contact without wavering and his walls were finally crumbling one last time._ _

__Sam was too stubborn; Dean was too weak._ _

__Dean let his hands wander, closing his eyes. He heard Sam puff out a tiny contented laugh before pushing his shoulder blade back more firmly against Dean’s hands. Dean let his finger tips, unimpeded by fear and need, get reacquainted with Sam’s lines and edges. He worked over the defined muscles they’d trained together to build across Sam’s smaller frame. He wasn’t really paying attention to where his hands wandered as they roamed Sam’s skin, but Sam’s breath turned sharp for a second as Dean skated a smooth hand over the soft part of Sam’s stomach. Sam’s answering shudder made him lick his lips and exhale hard through his nose._ _

__“It just feels good. I didn’t mean...It doesn’t mean anything.” Sam stuttered, shifting his hips away and darting a fear filled glance at Dean’s face. Dean could feel Sam against his thigh through the fabric of their sleep pants, even as Sam was shifting away. Sam didn’t want to screw this up. Sam wanted Dean to know that he could still be a safe place for Dean to rest when he needed to, that they could ignore it, and be okay. Sam wanted so badly to the ease the uncertain tension that had lingered between them on the occasions he had been close to Dean and his stupid body was messing it up for him before he had the chance. “Don’t freak.”_ _

__“I’m not.” Dean found himself replying quietly and was surprised to find it was true. He didn’t know if it would stay true, but right now there was nothing but quiet inside him. There was no fear, no insecurity, no dad lurking in the back of his brain waiting to catch him slipping up. There was just Sam, warm, pliant, but now looking so scared. Dean didn’t think Sam should ever look scared._ _

__Dean rolled onto his side to face Sam and brushed some of Sam’s fringe out of his eyes before sliding his hand down the center of Sam’s back along his spine. He pulled Sam close by hooking the arm he had pinned against the mattress around Sam’s waist. Without letting himself think too long about what he was about to do, Dean darted a glance at Sam’s face just to make sure this was, well, something Sam wanted, even if Dean knew for sure it wasn’t okay. He slipped his hand beneath the waistband of Sam’s pajamas, watching Sam’s eyes carefully for any sign that Sam wanted him to stop._ _

__“Oh.” Sam let out softly, surprised, but pushing forward as Dean’s hand closed around him._ _

__“I’m sorry.” Dean pressed his forehead against Sam’s shoulder and brushed Sam’s chest with his lips as he spoke in a broken whisper. He didn’t know whether he was sorry that they were doing this, or sorry that they hadn’t been all along, but he just needed Sam to know that he was sorry._ _

__He’d been thinking about doing this again every night that Sam fell asleep first, laying in the opposite bed across from him. He’d thought about it during every shower he’d taken, with his lips caught between his teeth to stifle the sound. He’d thought about it when Sam laughed, bringing him back to that startled laugh of delight he’d pulled from Sam’s mouth the first time. He’d fought against all that so desperately on the nights that he’d come home needing Sam, but tonight he was done thinking about it._ _

__“It’s okay.” Sam shuddered, curling impossibly closer._ _

__“Sure.” Dean replied hollowly, not stilling even though he knew ‘it’s okay’ was almost always a lie, even when the other person didn’t think they were lying. He knew he would probably regret this later. He’d probably sink to the floor in the bathroom unable to control himself and lose it because here he was doing this again, even after silently begging for mercy and swearing not to do it again when things hadn’t imploded the last time._ _

__Dean’s grip was too dry and clumsy and the angle was too awkward, but it didn’t matter. Sam wasn’t quiet, but there was no one else there to hear. That same broken laugh spilled from his lips, the same small moans danced off his tongue. Dean let his mind go blank and concentrated on that instead of whatever fallout was coming afterwards._ _

__When it was done, he pulled his hand away, wiping it quickly on Sam’s abandoned t-shirt and waiting for his stomach to drop out through the floor. He was waiting for the shame and guilt and anger he’d felt towards himself the last time to slam down onto him again. It didn’t take long for it all to clench up in his stomach, like a vice grip squeezing at his organs and making him shiver._ _

__He closed his eyes guiltily and rolled onto his back. He didn’t pull away completely as he listened to Sam’s breathing evening out beside him and struggled with the tightness developing in his chest. He felt Sam shift slightly, and then smaller more hesitant fingers than his own were touching at the edge of Dean’s waistband, worrying over the fabric as they crept along, uncertain, but curious._ _

__“No.” Dean said sharply as his hand closed around Sam’s wrist and pulled the younger Winchester’s fingers away. He’d spoken a little more loudly than he’d intended, spurred by panic and the sick feeling flooding his intestines. The harshness of the sound had made Sam jump. “Not back...not me…you can’t.”_ _

__Dean knew it didn’t make any sense really, but he couldn’t let Sam. He couldn’t stop himself. He was sick, and not strong enough to fight himself, but he couldn’t let Sammy touch him back. He couldn’t cross that line. He would never cross that line._ _

__“Okay. I won’t. Look at me.” Sam agreed quickly, picking up on the terror and guilt bleeding into Dean’s voice and moving his free hand that wasn’t being crushed in Dean’s grip to the rest on Dean’s jaw. Dean’s eyes flicked up to meet his, but darted away again just as quickly. “I won’t. Please. Don’t run away. Stay.”_ _

__Dean swallowed tightly and nodded, loosening his grasp on Sam’s hand and letting him pull it free. Sam shuffled around and then was plastered back to his side with his arm wrapped carefully around Dean’s chest. Sam’s thumb was very gently rubbing over the same spot on Dean’s collar bone that he’d been able to reach in the car. Dean tried to use the point of contact as an anchor to keep himself from spinning off the tracks. He was very carefully controlling his breathing, trying to make sure that he didn’t hyperventilate or hold his breath as he struggled to come to terms with what he’d just done. Again._ _

__“Everything’s okay, Dean.” Sam said softly after a little while when it was obvious Dean was thinking too loudly. “Get some sleep.”_ _

__Dean exhaled low and long, forcing his shoulders to relax against the mattress._ _

__***_ _

__John collapsed into the Impala and threw the car into reverse. He needed coffee. Before he did anything else he needed a fucking coffee. And maybe an Advil. But first, for sure a coffee. He'd head back to the hotel once he had his head on straight._ _

__He sat in the corner of a tiny take out eating a half cold breakfast sandwich, trying to put his head back on and hopefully stop the chisel that was eating away at the left side of his brain. The night before was foggy, and he remembered it, but he was trying hard to store it away in the part of his brain that housed the things he didn’t deal with. It wasn’t working very well._ _

__She’d been willing and he’d been so hungry thinking about it all day. He’d been drunk enough not to care what it did or didn’t mean about him. When they’d made it to her apartment, they’d stumbled to her bedroom. He’d taken off her clothes standing in her room, raking fingernails down her back hard enough to leave red lines that would fade by morning and pulling her close against him over his clothes when she shivered in response. She’d moaned and bucked against him and he’d taken that as encouragement to keep going._ _

__He’d turned her around rough, but careful, and pushed her forward deliberately onto the mattress the same way Dean had been laid out in front of him that afternoon. He hadn’t bothered to take off his own clothes. He’d just held her down with his weight while he roughly jerked his belt and jeans open. He’d rested his hand on the nape of her neck holding her in a steady grip, though without the same force he’d held Dean._ _

__She’d been begging for it as he’d paused, remembering Dean’s contrasting soft delicate hitches from underneath him earlier and swallowing after the low growl that had escaped his own lips. His eyes lingered on the red stripes he’d pressed into her back, remembering the darker raised edges he’d left on paler skin._ _

__He’d closed his eyes, trying not to think of anything, as he’d slammed deep inside her, setting a brutal pace. The stitches in his side from the week before, though well healed through rest and continued care, had been pulling and aching with the pace he set. It hadn’t slowed him down or stop him though, achieving the opposite instead. The memories of Dean, bent close and working with precision, were like a spur pushing his pace forward. He’d dropped one of his hands to rest over where Dean’s work was still stitched across his skin, fingers flexing around the back of her neck as he’d groaned low in his throat._ _

__He was pretty sure it had been good for her too if her sounds had been anything to go by, but in reality, he hadn’t cared. He was never going to see her again._ _

__He’d been so fucked out and still so drunk afterwards that he’d shed his clothes and spent the night. John almost never spent the night. Usually he left afterwards and slept it off in the car before going back to the hotel. This morning, he’d woken up with blond hair littered across his chest and sunlight streaming into the room. He’d been tangled around some girl who didn’t even know his name, who he hoped, but seriously doubted, was at least college aged. He’d carefully gotten out of bed, dressed, and had slipped away._ _

__After forty minutes in the diner and two more cups of coffee, John had managed to reconstruct a shaky version of reality he could live with. Beating Dean wasn’t that kind of release. It brought him relief and it was messed up, but it wasn’t sexual and it never had been. He’d just been drunk last night and had gotten carried away and it had been such a shock seeing Mary all over Dean’s face that he’d been raw and confused. There was no connection between fucking that girl in her bedroom and holding Dean down on the hotel mattress. It sure hadn’t meant anything between him and that girl, and Dean didn’t even know about it._ _

__In short, last night he’d hooked up with some stranger. He did that sometimes. It wasn’t a crime. That was all it had been._ _

__***_ _

__Dean woke up around seven forty, ten minutes before the alarm was set to ring. He knew dad would be back within the hour, John was never later than eight thirty or nine coming back in the morning on nights he went drinking, but he rarely showed up earlier than that. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and raked a gentle hand through Sam’s hair. It made Sam huddle closer, resisting morning before it had been properly announced. Sam was still sprawled out on top of him and he looked almost like he was smiling in his sleep._ _

__Waking up this morning, watching Sam in the quiet stillness he was having a hard time feeling anything but peaceful. It felt good. Dean had tried so hard to resist it, to tell Sam no, to tell himself no. Not to touch, not to look, not to let himself think about it, not to miss Sam’s body. It hadn’t worked. He still felt guilty, but not as intensely as he had the night before. He knew it was wrong, but it didn’t feel wrong. Instead, it had felt like the first full breath of air he’d been able to draw in weeks._ _

__Dean watched the minutes until the alarm sounded quietly pass on the alarm clock on the bedside table. He wished he could slow time down and lay here tangled with Sam a while longer. He couldn’t slow down time though, and morning ticked closer until the alarm sounded mercilessly from beside them._ _

__Dean slapped his palm down on it with more disdain than necessary. They needed to shower and get ready to go. Dad wasn’t planning on staying here, this was just a stop on the way. He sighed, leaning back against the pillow and accepting that today was happening._ _

__“Sammy.” Dean murmured quietly, giving Sam a quick squeeze. “Time to get up. Come on.”_ _

__Sam groaned, blinking his eyes open, catching sight of Dean and then closing them, as though trying to pretend he was still asleep. Dean rolled his eyes and poked Sam in the side, earning an unwilling giggle from the younger boy when Dean strategically twitched his fingers over the ticklish spot on Sam’s ribs without warning. Sam tensed immediately going rigid against further attacks, but Dean didn’t plan on launching any. Instead, Dean smoothed his hands down flat and promised not to do it again._ _

__“You’re not… about...You’re good?” Sam asked cautiously, peeking out half-convinced that Dean was still going to go for his sides and refusing to be caught off guard._ _

__“Trying to be.” Dean settled on after a few seconds. Then Dean stretched and shoved Sam gently sideways off of him. Sam started to grumble a complaint, but he then settled into his own stretch and groaned instead as his joints cracked after laying the same way for so long._ _

__“I’ll take it.” Sam yawned in response. “Better than being ignored for a week.”_ _

__“Sammy… this...You say it’s okay, but other people wouldn’t. This isn’t normal.” Dean said quietly, not bothering to point out that it had only been a few days, not a week. That wasn’t really important. Right now, he needed Sam to know for sure, one hundred percent, without a chance of misunderstanding, that this wasn’t normal so that he could put a stop to it if he wanted to because Dean was quickly realizing he couldn’t._ _

__“I know.” Sam assured him quietly. Dean felt icy all over, if Sam told he’d be dead, but he wouldn’t try to stop Sam from doing so. He didn’t know how to feel about Sam’s next words. “Our secret, but just ours.”_ _

__“Okay.” Dean swallowed, trying to work out the implications of Sam’s words in his head. Dad would actually kill him if he ever found out. The world would be disgusted by him. People would think he was a monster, would know he was a monster, for what he’d done._ _

__Consequences and what other people would think didn’t matter. Dean felt helpless, stuck like a planet that had been trying to resist orbit even through the gravitational pull was too strong to break away. His life had always revolved around Sam like that. He was pretty sure it always would._ _

__He knew he would go to hell for putting his hands on Sam like that and for hearing those sounds. It was a thought that had been haunting him since the first time it had happened and now he was sure. He didn’t believe in heaven or God because the world was too broken for it to be true, but it was easy to believe in hell and how horrible it would be when he’d witnessed plenty of the creatures that crawled out of it._ _

__Well, Dean figured if there was anything worth going to hell for... it was Sam._ _


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is 16.  
> Sam is 12  
> Takes place a couple days after John picks Dean up from the boys home. 
> 
> Content warning: Sexual abuse. Nothing below the belt, but sexual abuse is an ongoing theme from here. Read with caution. 
> 
> Summary: 
> 
> Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting. Dad had called two hours ago and told him to be awake when he got there in three. Dean had been able to hear the bar in the background; the clink of glasses, the chatter, the music. It was a long time to wait, but almost not long enough. Dean hadn’t been alone with dad since he’d been picked up at the boys home a few nights before. He didn’t know whether John would still punish him more for that or not. He’d done the time for the theft at Sonny’s, but he didn't know if that counted as a crime paid for with Dad.

Dean was sitting at the kitchenette table, waiting. Dad had called two hours ago and told him to be awake when he got there in three. Dean had been able to hear the bar in the background; the clink of glasses, the chatter, the music. It was a long time to wait, but almost not long enough. Dean hadn’t been alone with dad since he’d been picked up at the boys home a few nights before. He didn’t know whether John would still punish him more for that or not. He’d done the time for the theft at Sonny’s, but he didn't know if that counted as a crime paid for with Dad. Sitting here in the quiet, it was hard not to replay that last night at Sonny’s in his head.

_I’ll fight for you to stay. ___

____

As he'd pulled on the door handle of the Impala looking back at that house, everything in Dean had wanted to turn back and scream yes. Staying at the boys’ home had been torture in some ways, bedtimes and curfews mostly, but in others it had been a slice of the normalcy Dean had almost forgotten. He’d had his first girlfriend, been involved with school and sports, he’d even had grades that had rivaled Sam’s. Sonny had called it a second chance, and it would have been, but if he’d taken it what would it have cost Sam? 

That had been the worst part about the boys home, being away from Sam and having him unaccounted for. Dean knew he was obsessive about where, when, what, who, and why when it came to Sam, but it had been trained into him since he was young to know where Sam was at any given moment. Aside from that, Sam was where Dean went when he felt lost or didn’t know what to do. He always just focused on what Sam needed, wanted, or was interested in. Being at Sonny’s without him had forced Dean to adapt to being Sam-less over the long-term for the first time since Sam had been born. 

The first week had been pure panic and no way to turn it off. Logically, he’d known dad would never leave Sam alone in a hotel room for that long. Even when Dean went on hunts with John, they’d never left Sam for more than a week at a time before coming back. Even though Sam was definitely older than Dean had been when he’d started looking after them both alone, the idea of Sam trying to juggle money, food, and questions on his own when he’d never had to before? Dean had had a lot of nightmares until he’d finally begged to call and check in. He’d tried Pastor Jim’s first, and his heart had caught in his throat when Pastor Jim had told him he hadn’t heard from John or Sam. He’d quickly dialed Bobby’s convinced he wouldn’t find Sam there either. 

He’d used the phone for less than ten minutes and under supervision. Sonny had raised an eyebrow at Dean needing to locate Sam before he checked in, but he didn’t say anything. Sonny loitering nearby made it difficult to actually talk to Bobby. He wanted to explain himself and why he’d risked the money in a stupid bet. John had been completely silent for three weeks and they hadn’t had much left. Dean had been too confident, he’d played too risky and he’d lost. He’d stolen the food for Sam, planning to find a better solution in case dad was gone longer, but he’d never made it back to the Sam. He wanted so badly to explain himself, but he was conscious of other ears, so instead he asked pointedly about Sam. 

It was a lot easier to breathe when Bobby confirmed that yes, Sam was indeed with him and had been for almost a week. He asked Bobby to make sure Sam stuck to some sort of schedule. He was implying a training schedule of some kind. He couldn’t say it outright, but he hoped Bobby caught his meaning. He’d promised to stay out of more trouble and had hung up. Then it had been almost a month and a half before he’d heard or seen anything related to Sam. 

Dean would be lying if he said he hadn’t seriously considered at least for a few seconds letting Sonny deal with the details of making his stay permanent. He loved dad’s car, but he wanted to leave the driving, the hotels, the moving, the hunting, the supernatural, and even dad behind. As much as Dean wanted out and wanted desperately to say yes, he couldn’t. 

Sam. He’d never leave Sam behind. 

Driving away, he’d thought about calling Sonny the next chance he was alone and explaining everything he’d left out and begging him to please take Sam in too. He didn’t know if Sonny could do that though. Sonny ran a boys home, and everyone there had some sort of rap sheet and were technically doing time, even though they still went to school and didn’t have to go to a detention center. It wasn’t some orphanage or daycare for wayward boys. There were rules about who could be there and why, and Dean was too afraid to tell too much of the truth without knowing what the rules were. CPS was always on the back of his mind and he wouldn’t risk being separated indefinitely from Sam just so that Dean could stay on the farm and learn to play the guitar. 

He’d made up his mind, and now there was no point thinking about it anymore. He had already made the choice and he was sure it was the right one. He knew if he had chosen differently, it could be Sammy sitting here now waiting for Dad and that was the last thing he wanted. Dean looked over at the clock. 

One hour to go.

***  
Dad was drunk. 

Really drunk. 

Way more drunk than Sam had ever seen Dad, and way more drunk than Dean had seen him in years. John was agitated and riled up, and from what Dean could piece together it sounded like he’d been on the losing end of a bar-stool to the face when the staff had kicked him out into the parking lot. Now John was so loaded and pissed off he couldn’t string together a full coherent sentence and every other word John did manage to produce was some sort of creative expletive. Dean was silently pleading with the universe that the thin door separating his and Sam’s room from John was thick enough to block out the noise of John returning because the idea of Sam helping him with _this _made Dean’s stomach hurt.__

__After staggering into the flat, but forgetting his bags in the car, John dropped down heavily into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. John had a few bruises across his face and a bloody lip, and was favouring his left foot._ _

__Dean ducked back outside to get John’s bags from the back of the Impala. He walked across the dark parking lot quickly, fumbling with Dad’s keys and checking over his shoulder. It was a little cool, but only enough that he wished he was wearing a long sleeve shirt. He grabbed the bags from the back, doubling checking that he had everything so he wouldn’t have to listen to John growl and so that he wouldn’t have to come back._ _

__Dean slammed the door of the Impala, wondering how John had managed to drive home. He snorted at himself and tossed the bag over his shoulder. John was shitfaced, but he knew his dad and as much as John was currently a stumbling swearing mess, he’d be sober in a second if he needed to be. Dean didn’t know if it was because of how long dad had been on the job or whether dad just had enough practice drinking himself stupid to be able to navigate it with accuracy, but John was oddly good at sobering up at a moment’s notice._ _

__He dropped dad’s things into the chair beside the door and resecured the door before turning and waiting for a cue from dad where this was going. He was pretty sure dad wanted to hunt him. He could tell by the way John was acting. John was still aggressive and focused on relieving that stress even though he was having a hard time coordinating himself. John had almost knocked over the water glass twice, and had slammed it back on the table a few times with way more force than necessary or intended._ _

__Dad was eyeing him in a peculiar way that made Dean’s skin crawl. It made him twitchy and he needed to move or occupy his hands with something. Biting the inside of his lip to keep it from giving his nerves away, he grabbed up dad’s weapons bag and approached the table. Dean started methodically field stripping and cleaning the weapons he’d brought from the car to keep himself from crumpling under John’s gaze._ _

__Dean knew going out tonight was too risky. John was too drunk. Dean knew there was a real danger that if he let himself get dragged outside with John he was going to get seriously hurt. Hospital hurt. John, currently didn’t have a good grasp on how much force he as putting behind his movements or his depth perception. John would win, like he always did, but Dean had no idea what that would mean for him and his own well-being at the end of the night with dad so completely wrecked._ _

__“Get them clean and then we’ll go.” John grunted, seeming to read Dean’s mind but coming to the opposite conclusion. Dean stared down at the weapon in his hand. He considered laying it down and refusing to finish cleaning it if that’s what he had to do first, but he knew John really wasn’t looking to debate whether they should go or not. Instead, he decided to work the exhaustion angle._ _

__“Dad, you’ve already been in a couple fights tonight from the look of it-”_ _

__John sat up straighter and glared at him and Dean knew not to push it. Dean fell quiet again, reassembling the weapon he had just finished cleaning and tucking it back into the bag before selecting another. John continued to watch him, un-moving from across the table and Dean had to fight to act calm. Dean’s ears were ringing and he was having a hard time dismantling the weapon in his hands._ _

__Dean snuck a quick glance at John’s face and found that same strange and unfamiliar look in the corners of John’s features. Dean had been studying, predicting, and cleaning up after John as long as he could remember, but he’d never seen this look that was on John’s face now. He was waiting for John to snap at him and tell him to stop fooling around. He was ready for dad to rip the weapon from his hands and either hit him with it or drag him out of his chair. He was ready for John to yell and alert Sam and then he’d have to deal with Sam while John was belligerent._ _

__What he wasn’t ready for was for John to get up and walk away from the table. He was still struggling with staying coordinated, but as Dean had predicted, John could still move with an acceptable amount of agility. Dean didn’t let his own gaze follow, though he swore he could still feel dad’s eyes on him as if trying to take him apart under a microscope. John had stopped behind his chair somewhere. Dean’s breath caught in his throat. Something was definitely off. He didn’t look back to see where, hoping that dad would settle again more quickly if not antagonized._ _

__Several seconds passed before he felt John’s hand run through his short hair. Dad was standing directly behind him. He could feel the heat coming off of John’s body._ _

__“Dad?” Dean asked uncertainty, trying hard to suppress a nervous wince._ _

__“You were gone a long time.” John said roughly. Dean felt himself swallow involuntarily. He dropped the pieces of the gun he was holding and they clattered to the table. He felt himself lock up. “A lot of nights... you weren’t there.”_ _

__“I-”_ _

__“Quiet.” He sounded detached and emotionless. It was a tone Dean had never heard his father use. It set alarms off in Dean’s head._ _

__John reached down and put his palm against Dean’s cheek from in back of him, his fingertip just brushing the corner of Dean’s lip. His hand covered most of Dean’s jaw. He’d only rested his hand on Dean’s face, but Dean was trapped, weighted to the chair. This was weird and new and he didn't know what to do. There was panic was corroding his lungs, but he couldn’t move. He was staring forward at the empty chair across from him, willing dad to remove his touch and sit back down._ _

__John didn’t. John turned Dean’s head to the side so that his his cheek resting against the fabric of John’s shirt over his midriff. John was holding him in place with a thump dug painfully into the curve of Dean’s jaw. After a few seconds and a murmur not to move, John trailed his hand slowly down Dean’s jaw and neck. Dean was very aware of his pulse beating underneath John’s touch and he knew John could feel him swallow. He felt John’s free hand make contact with his arm then, bunching up the flanel into a tight fist for a moment, before smoothing it back flat over his shoulder. He heard and felt John exhale a long harsh exhale._ _

___This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening._

John’s hold tightened on his throat, constricting his air ever so slightly. He could breathe, but it was uncomfortable and tight. Dad’s hold quickly made him feel lightheaded. Slowly, John released the pressure and the hand on Dean’s neck slid it's way slowly down his throat and inside the collar of his shirt. John hovered over the hollow between Dean’s collar bones, before flicking open the first button of Dean’s button down. 

Dean’s brain went calmly blank.

He was aware of John’s hands, still touching him, anchoring him to this spot, but he felt like he was watching. It was different from other times he’d dissociated when dad beat him. He used those to his advantage to space out, but he didn’t want to go blank right now. He wanted to push out of John’s grip. He probably was even strong enough to do it. John was so trashed it wasn’t like he was at his best reaction time. If he moved, Dean could probably shove dad away. He was trying to reach out to his body and make his fingers respond, but they wouldn’t. He was just an observer. 

He felt another one of the buttons of his shirt pop open. He wanted to flinch away, but his body wouldn’t respond to his commands. Dad’s hands slipped beneath Dean’s clothes, pulling his shirt askew and making contact with Dean’s bare shoulders. John’s hands were rough, like sandpaper. 

“You look like your mom, Dean.” John groaned next to his ear. His breath was hot on the back of Dean’s neck, jagged and panting. 

“Please...no...” Dean breathed. It was barely a whisper, barely half a quiver of air across his tongue. John raised one of his hands in response, closing it over Dean’s mouth while the other pressed down the center of Dean’s chest. Dean could feel himself tremor helplessly.

Sam was the only thing that saved him. 

Down the short hallway of the flat, behind the thin bedroom door to the room Dean and Sam were sharing, Sam made some sort of large crashing sound that seemed to bring John back halfway to his senses. Dean didn’t know what Sam had dropped, or if Sam had fallen out of bed, but he didn’t care because it was enough. John stumbled back and then took a couple of deliberate steps away from him as Dean twisted out of the seat, quickly putting the table between them and feeling his eyes starting to sting. 

“I’m...I’m gonna...going to bed.” Dean stuttered. 

“Dean-” 

“John.” Dean was shaking violently, and his voice was so uneven it cracked twice trying to push out the one syllable word. Dean quickly grabbed one of the guns from the bag in front of him on the table and held it up in warning when John took another step towards him. He had no idea the gun in his hand was even loaded, and silently hoped that Dad didn't know either.

“Gun down, Dean.” Dad hissed quietly, looking at the door Sam was behind quickly. Dean shook his head, his hand still trembling around the weapon. It wasn’t pointed directly at John, but he was quick and John knew it. He reached out and gathered the rest of the weapons he’d been stripping back into the bag, not taking his eyes off John. There was no way he was leaving them there. 

“I’m going to bed.” Dean insisted again, tossing the bag over his shoulder. He didn’t know if he was really ready to shoot his dad if John did lunge for him. 

John didn’t reply, just watched Dean make his way to his and Sam’s room. 

***

Dean closed the door behind himself and locked the handle with a click. Even locked he didn't trust the door to hold against any type of assault. It was flimsy, Sammy could probably have punched through it by the age of nine with no problem. He didn’t trust it, but it was the only door he had so it would have to do. 

He sank to the floor, leaning against the door and clutching the bag of weapons to his chest as though they would comfort him. He was terrified dad would follow him any moment. He knew he was hopeless if John did decide to come after him. Deep down, he knew he couldn’t shoot John. John was still his dad. He’d never been able to hate John, even when he wanted to. He squeezed his eyes shut, listening over his own labored breath to hear if dad was in the hall. It didn’t sound like it, but he was listening so hard that he was hearing creaks and squeaks that weren’t there. 

Dean felt twisted. His whole gut felt like it was burning inside and his stomach was contracting violently against his best efforts to keep his body calm. Why had he just sat there for so long and let it happen? Well, nothing had really happened... Had it? John had just touched him on the face, on the shoulder, that wasn’t something necessarily wrong. That wasn’t something automatically bad. Sometimes dad touched him there when he was in a perfectly normal mood, a gentle tap on the cheek after a good shot with a rifle, or Dad’s hand resting on his shoulder as though it was partially Dean’s victory when Sam did something well. It was easy to brush aside the weirdness of John’s hands on his face, but he couldn’t explain away the two buttons that were undone on his shirt or the way John had whispered in his ear.

Even though he was trying find excuses, he couldn’t escape the feeling of wrong. It was a deeper feeling of wrong than he was used to. He hadn’t imagined the weirdness in the kitchen. It had been real. It had happened. He was so sure, and so unsure at the same time. John had never touched him like that before. Maybe John hadn’t touched him like that now and he was just making it up. 

God, he wanted a _shower _. He felt his fingers, arms still wrapped around the bag, dig into the skin of his neck and shoulder. He wanted to scrub the skin off, erase any evidence, no matter how microscopic, of John’s hands running over his throat and jaw. He wanted to take one of those rough scrub pads like the ones he used to help Bobby clean up the shop and use it to scrape and buff the tarnished skin cells from his body. He felt a shiver run through him and let out a quiet, but unmistakable half-sob-half-hysterical-laugh.__

__“Dean?” Sam asked tentatively. He’d been sitting up on the bed when Dean had burst in, and had stared silently as Dean had slipped to the floor and lost his composure. He was looking at Dean, balled up on the floor and clutching at his own skin._ _

__“Leave me alone, Sam.” Dean sounding nothing like himself. Dean hadn’t even noticed him until he spoke. He had very clearly been awake for a while with no sign of sleep present in his face or voice. Thinking of trying to talk to Sam right now made him almost vomit from the overload. He couldn’t do it._ _

__Sam bit his lip. Usually Dean didn’t really want Sam to leave him alone when he said that, but right now Dean looked like he was about to shatter and never get up off the floor again. Dean looked cornered like a vicious animal in a cage and Sam didn’t think it was a good time to see if Dean would lash out or not._ _

__“Okay.” Sam said after a quiet moment of consideration._ _

__Dean dropped the weapons to the floor beside him, and rested his head on his knees, folding his arms around his legs. He closed his eyes and tried to get the bitter taste of vomit out of the back of his throat. He felt so sick and dirty, but he couldn’t explain why it was his fault, even in his own head. He just knew it was. If he’d done something it wouldn’t have happened. He’d let it happen._ _

__Neither of the boys moved for a long while. Sam stayed sitting up on the bed with his hands folded watching Dean shake on the floor. Dean himself only looked up when, some time later, he heard Sam get off the bed and walk over to the door. Sam gestured for Dean to move out of the way so that he could pass._ _

__“No.” Dean said sharply, reaching out gently to close his hand around Sam’s ankle. His grip was loose, not really stopping Sam from moving, but holding him there all the same. “Let’s just stay in here ‘kay?”_ _

__“I gotta pee.” Sam said, pulling at the door handle and frowning. Dean stayed put, not letting Sam pull it open. He closed his eyes, trying to figure out what to do. He didn’t want to go back out there. He didn’t want Sam to go out there. He didn’t know where John was or what he was doing. “Dean, come on.”_ _

__“Sammy.” Dean murmured sounding defeated._ _

__“Stop being a dick and move, Dean.” Sam said, annoyed, and pushing his foot against Dean’s thigh without any real force. He was frowning down at Dean._ _

__“Sam please just…” Dean trailed off in frustration, knowing that there was nothing he could say to make a request for Sam to ‘hold it’ until the morning sound reasonable. “Sam, please...don’t ask, just...let’s go to the bathroom and get ready for bed, okay? I want a quick shower, but I won’t take long, just wait for me.”_ _

__“While you shower?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow._ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“In the bathroom?”_ _

__“Yes._ Sam_.” He hoped that if he kept insisting, Sam would fold.

“Dean.” Sam said. He glanced at dad’s bag of weapons on the floor and then back to Dean. “What’s going on?” 

Dean shook his head, and took a deep breath. He was pretty sure if he tried, he could make Sam just accept what he was wanted without explanation. He decided to be as honest as he could and hope. 

“Sammy, I’m freaking out.” Dean settled on in a low voice, trying very hard to keep the terrified chaos erupting inside of himself contained. “Please.” 

“Yeah.” Sam said slowly, watching Dean’s face. Dean was tired, and Sam wasn’t sure, but Dean seemed half a breath away from swan diving into a panic attack. “Sure Dean.” 

Sam smiled and reached a hand down to help Dean up. Dean swallowed hard before reaching out and taking Sam’s hand. Dean grabbed some clean clothes for after and shoved the duffle with dad’s weapons behind Sam’s tousled bed. The guns weren’t really hidden there, but they were at least out of sight. 

Sam pulled the door back open, and Dean peeked down the hall. John was sitting back at the table, now leaning his head heavily on his arm with a new bottle of Jack beside him. He had something in his hands, Dean couldn’t tell what exactly, a small book maybe? He was flipping through it and focused on it, oblivious to anything but whatever was in his hands. He didn’t seem to notice their door open or Dean watching him.

He stepped aside, not taking his eyes off the table where dad was sitting while Sam crossed the hall. If Sam thought Dean was acting strangely, which Dean knew he did because Dean knew he was being really weird, he didn’t say anything. He was quick in the bathroom and then opened the door to let Dean follow him inside. 

Sam sat on the sink counter, head leaning back against the wall as Dean got in the shower and undressed, dropping his clothes on the floor outside the stall before turning on the water. It was burning him, but he wanted it to. He let himself get flayed under it for a few seconds as though carving away the residue left by his father’s hands, before grabbing the discount shampoo he and Sam shared and soaping up quickly. 

When he turned off the water Sam passed him a towel around the edge of the curtain. Dean dried quickly, dressed, and followed Sam back across the hall. Halfway there, Dean came to an unwilling standstill, frozen in fear looking towards the kitchen again. He could feel his heartbeat starting to quicken again as he looked. Dad was still at the table. It didn’t look like he had moved, though some of the liquid in the bottle had disappeared. Dean shuddered and felt Sam lace their fingers together. 

Sam tugged him forward from where he’d stopped in the middle of the hall and nudged him gently into their room. It reminded him of when Sam was younger and Dean would hold his hand while they crossed the road. Only now, it was Sam who as leading and the oncoming traffic was the terror that seemed to make his body and his brain detach from each other. 

“My bed, Dean.” Sam said, sounding lazy as he closed the door behind them, but Dean could tell it was manufactured. Sam was managing him the way Sam did sometimes when Dean seemed to be teetering off the edge of being able to manage himself. Dean didn’t mind. In all honesty, it helped. Dean stepped obediently around the cot that they’d brought in for him and went to Sam’s bed instead. 

Dean and Sam still slept in a separate bed most nights. It was easier to keep this arrangement than to try to take back his reasons to John for moving out of the bed with Sam.  
Generally they kept to their own space unless Dean needed contact, but on a few occasions had they ended up sharing without a reason. Those nights, Dean fell asleep calm and generally had dreams that weren’t clouded. Sam always fell asleep exhausted and satisfied beside him. 

Dean laid his head back into the cool pillows, and the light went out. It wasn’t dark though, there was a yard light outside their window that shone almost directly into their faces when their heads were on the pillow. He looked over for Sam to see what was taking so long and discovered was getting undressed. He’d already discarded his shirt and pyjama pants and was down to his underwear. It was Sam’s socks causing the delay. Sam hated how they got twisted around his feet an bunched up in his toes if he left them on at night. For a moment, seeing Sam be so blatantly -Sam- had Dean feeling almost normal. 

Sam came to bed slowly, first kneeling on the bed beside him, slipping the covers up around them and taking hold of one of Dean’s hands. He placed Dean’s palm against his side, murmuring quiet encouragement. He wasn’t really saying anything specific, just mumbling for Dean to hear his voice. Dean couldn’t help but start to unwind, melting into the familiar feeling of Sam. He’d missed Sam so badly while he’d been gone. Sam exhaled long and slow as he settled down against Dean. He was glad Sam was close to him now. Dean slid the hand Sam had put to his own skin to rest on Sam’s hip, gripping, but not really holding. 

After tonight with dad, he felt something more than his eternal guilt over messing around with Sam eating at his stomach anew. He was having a hard time not blurring the lines in his head between what he did with Sam, and what it had felt like to have dad touching him. All the vulnerability inside him made him nervously tense; even though it was Sam, and Sam was generally a safe haven. 

This wasn’t like that... right? 

The way Dean was touching Sam now wasn’t the same as how dad had made him feel in the kitchen, right? He thought back, trying to remember but distance himself from the way his body had gone rigid against his control and the horrible feelings that had been frozen inside of him. 

Helpless.

Numb. 

Afraid. 

That was how he’d felt as John had pressed the tips of his fingers into Dean’s flesh. Here though, Sam didn’t seem to be any of those things. Sam was guiding his hands anew and whispering to him, his lips brushing the shell of Dean’s ear. Sam seemed enthusiastic and confident; as though he was starving for Dean’s attention now that he was there and willing to extend it. Dean pressed his palms firmly against Sam, trying to center himself. He wasn’t drawing patterns or moving his hands over Sam’s like he normally did, he was just touching. 

“Is this-?” 

“Yes, Dean. It’s ok. It’s good.” Sam assured him, nudging Dean’s temple with his nose and sounding both amused and frustrated at the same tired old question. “We’re fine. Relax.” 

He did his best to follow Sam’s instructions and tried to let himself unwind underneath Sam, but it was hard to shut off the thoughts racing through his head. His heart felt like it was beating out of rhythm and every few breaths he would remember what it felt like to have John’s fingers squeezing his air supply tighter. 

He tried to focus on where he could feel Sam touching him back. His touches were mostly concentrated on Dean’s hair and face. Maybe it was weird, Dean had no idea, but Sam tracing his features helped some of the tension and fear leech out of them. He felt his expression even out, a frown he hadn’t even been aware of being gently removed by Sam’s hand. Even though being close to Sam was helping, Dean was still trembling. He didn’t know how to fight it, so he just let it happen.

“Dean.” Sam said, after a few minutes of quiet observation. He was sure he was reading Dean right, but ever so often he needed to double check. “You’re... scared right?” 

“Shut up. I’m not scared of anything.” Dean mumbled, not opening his eyes. It was a lie he’d been telling Sam since they’d been young, and one Sam had stopped believing a long time ago.

“Sure, okay, you’re not.” Sam rolled his eyes. “But skin to skin helps, right?” 

Dean shrugged, not bothering to reply. Sam already knew the answer from years of them tangling together long past midnight. It had always been true; from the time they’d been small enough that even together they hadn’t taken up half of the, what had seemed like, ginormous hotel beds they’d slept in when Sammy had still been a toddler. 

“And if you were busy not being scared…” Sam started with a sarcastic, but kind smile. There was no venom in it, just affection and reassurance. “And you took off your shirt too, would that help? With the not being scared?”

“That was confusing as hell, Sam.” Dean countered, ignoring the actual question and opening his eyes to look up at Sam.

“Stop being stupid.” Sam insisted impatiently. 

“You’re stupid.” Dean sighed back, considering. As awful as dad’s hands had felt skimming across his skin, he had nothing Sam could see marking his body. 

He felt another guilty tug in his stomach, was this really okay? Sam said it was, and he was consistent when questioned over again. Sam repeatedly told him this was okay, every single time they ended up doing something like this Sam insisted he was fine. Dean could feel his eyes stinging as he wrestled with what to do. Sam leaned back, giving him some space, but he slipped his hands underneath the edge of Dean’s shirt, spreading his fingers across the soft skin of Dean’s stomach. 

“Come on, Dean.” Sam coaxed. 

Dean didn’t really want to resist what Sam was offering and Sam looked as sure and calm as he always did in moments like this. He sat up, Sam hastily sitting back to give him room, and then he let Sam help him tug his shirt away. In a reversal or roles, it was Sam’s hands sliding quickly over skin, as though trying to map out every inch. They’d grown up in shitty hotel rooms and the back of the Impala. Sam had seen Dean shirtless, pants-less, even naked a few times, but only ever on Dean’s terms and he rarely got to touch back underneath Dean’s clothes. 

Sam gently shoved Dean’s shoulder back so that he was laying against the sheets again and then pressed their stomach’s together, folding his arms across Dean’s chest and resting his head on top of them. Sam had used Dean as a pillow loads of times, but certainly never bare chest against bare chest. Sam was tucking himself closer to Dean, and Sam seemed comfortable so Dean was going to take Sam’s word for it that this was, in fact, okay. His brain was tired and he was tired of trying to reason through the foggy panic in his head. 

He pressed his face into Sam’s hair and repeated the same mantra he always used when he struggled for sleep. Sam was okay. He was okay. Sam was safe. He was safe. He fixed his eyes on the door, not really believing his own lies. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, but he could let himself at least get some rest while Sam was clinging solidly to him. 

_***_

When John came to the first thing he noticed was how much the light hurt his eyes, even through his closed eyelids. The second was that he was lying on a very hard surface and had no idea where he was.

____Upon opening his eyes, he noted that the hard surface underneath him was the floor of the kitchenette in the flat he was renting with the boys. He rolled over onto his side and sat up, brushing a tired hand over his face. His eyes hurt when he tried to focus too intently, his whole head felt like it was pulsing with his heartbeat, and he could taste whiskey on his sour breath. He did not remember the bottle of Jack Daniels lying beside him. He figured that’s how he’d ended up here on the floor._ _ _ _

____His wallet was laying beside him, mistaken by Dean for a book the night before. His cards were spilled from their slots and the pictures he kept tucked into the photo protector were loose on the floor. He picked them up and smoothed the edges. One was a picture of Dean holding Sam while sitting on the hood of the Impala the day Sam had come home from the hospital. The other was a picture of Mary long before they’d had kids, when they’d first started dating. He didn’t look at these pictures a lot because it was painful to think of his boys that small and untouched by the life, and thinking about Mary always made him an emotional wreck, but he liked to keep them close as though he could still protect them. He pushed the contents of his wallet back in place, folding the memories carefully back in their protective plastic, before sliding the wallet into his pocket and standing up._ _ _ _

____He looked outside, glancing out the window over the tiny sink. It was still dark outside, sometime in the early morning. He leaned on the table, righting the chair he assumed he’d fallen out of and picking up the empty bottle of Jack, putting it in the kitchenette sink. He didn’t remember much from the night before to tell the truth. He’d been angry, and had lost a couple fights. He’d been drunk and called Dean from the bar. He’d planned to drive back to the flat and have Dean run. He knew he had at least gotten back to the flat, since he was here. He didn’t remember driving back even though the Impala was parked outside._ _ _ _

____It had been a long time since John had managed to get blackout drunk. It had been fairly common for a while when the boys had been really young for John to tuck them in, leave whatever Dean might need for Sam on the table or on the extra hotel bed, and then drink in the car until he couldn’t stay conscious. Dean had found him there a few times in the morning, passed out among the beer cans and bottles littered across the front seat. He’d cut back a lot since then._ _ _ _

____He still drank too much and he knew it, but it didn’t matter anymore. He was a hunter now, and it helped him face what he had to see and do on the job. There had only been a few occasions when alcohol had brought out impulses in him he wasn’t sure how to handle, but that had only happened a handful of times and he’d never acted on it. As far as alcoholism being a detriment to his character? He’d already done so much wrong he couldn’t make it worse with whiskey now._ _ _ _

____He looked around for evidence of the night before. Dean’s shoes were by the door, but John wasn’t sure if that mattered. He’d made Dean run without shoes before, he couldn’t remember whether Dean had mouthed off to him or not. He turned off the light and walked carefully down the hall, paying attention not to stagger as he went. He felt unsteady on his feet and possibly still a little drunk even though the hangover was going full force already._ _ _ _

____Wanting to make sure Dean was back in be, he turned the handle to the boys room. It was locked. John frowned at it. He could easily break the door to open it, or pick the lock, but if it was locked he had a good idea that Dean was probably inside. Sam didn’t lock Dean out, even when he was at his moodiest._ _ _ _

____Satisfied the boys were probably both still asleep and in too much discomfort to worry more about it, he turned into the second bedroom instead and collapsed onto the bed. He didn’t bother to close the door or change his clothes. He closed his eyes, swallowed the bitter dry taste in his mouth and let sleep drag him back under again._ _ _ _

____***_ _ _ _

____When Sam woke up, he wasn’t sure why. He thought for a moment he’d heard a creek by the door, but there was nothing there and he heard nothing when he strained to listen. He knew that the flat was secure so he turned his attention away from the locked door and back to where he was on the bed._ _ _ _

____He was still laying on top of Dean with Dean’s hand tangled in his hair. He could tell Dean was still asleep, even though he was still holding onto Sam a little too tightly. Judging by the tired lines of his face, he hadn’t been asleep long. There were still dark circles under his eyes. Sam pulled the covers a little more firmly up around them, feeling how cold Dean’s shoulders felt under his fingers._ _ _ _

____He scooted off Dean, landing gently beside him instead and leaned his head back on the pillow. Whatever was bothering Dean, it was_ really_ bothering Dean. Dean wasn’t hurt anywhere he’d been able to spot. It hadn’t even been all that late when he’d come in. Dean’s trembling had had a different edge to it. Sam couldn’t explain the difference in words, Dean had just been so intensely clingy and terrified. Whatever dad and Dean normally did that wound Dean up, that hadn’t been it last night. _ _

__He felt a shudder run through Dean and he carefully rearranged himself so he was touching more of Dean’s skin. If Dean woke up he probably wouldn’t go back to sleep again easily and Sam knew Dean was using him for both warmth and comfort. He was like that whenever he had an anxiety attack. Dean didn’t like it when Sam called it that though. Dean insisted he didn’t have panic attacks and that he was fine, so Sam didn’t push it. They both knew what helped when Dean did have definitely-not-a-panic-attack, so Sam didn’t see the point in making him admit it out loud._ _

__He checked the clock on the nightstand and found it was only four in the morning. A few more hours at most and he and Dean would be up and packing, getting ready to move on again somewhere new; wherever dad would drop them next. He didn’t like moving or switching schools or living in dirty hotels, cabins, apartments... but this was a familiar eb and flow of life on the road with John Winchester and for now Sam would have to deal with it. He didn’t intend to deal with it forever._ _

__Sam closed his eyes and yawned. He snaked his arm around Dean’s stomach, feeling Dean adjust and pull him closer. He muttered something, but Sam didn’t catch it. He knew whatever it was probably wasn’t even important or intentional. Dean talked a lot in his sleep, but it was usually only easy to understand him when he was having nightmares. The rest of the time he mumbled too inconsistently to piece any meaning together. Sam smoothed his hand across Dean’s arm and pulled the covers more firmly, checking that Dean was comfortable and warm enough, before tucking his face into Dean’s side and settling in for the next couple hours before the alarm._ _

__***_ _

__Dean was still yawning hard enough to stumble after brushing his teeth, washing his face, and using the washroom. He was moving slowly despite dad’s grumpy barked order to hurry and he knew it, but Sam seemed to be picking up his slack. Their duffles were packed when he came back from the bathroom and Sam was already dressed. Sam passed Dean in the door and took his turn in the bathroom._ _

__When Dean reached the bed he found Sam had left out a set of clothes for him that he’d be comfortable wearing sitting in the car for the next ten hours or so; sweat pants- not jeans, a t-shirt, an oversized sweater, no itchy tags, nothing too tight, nothing too hot. He felt a little weird having Sam pick out his clothes the same way he had for Sam when they’d been little, but he shrugged it off. He didn’t want to dig through the duffel anyway and Sam only ever did things like this to make life easier._ _

__When Dean was dressed he opened the door and made his way down the hall to the kitchen. Dad was already there, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a paper. Dean quickly gathered things for him and Sam to eat for breakfast; toast with jam and some cereal with a cup of milk left to split between them. He busied himself with bowls and cups and the toaster without speaking or looking at John because he didn’t know how to navigate last night._ _

__John wasn’t watching Dean closely, but he was aware of him and taking a general survey of Dean’s movements. Dean seemed to be walking fine, he didn’t seem to be hurt or injured anywhere, but he was definitely avoidant. John still couldn’t remember last night, but he had confirmed the outgoing calls to Dean on his cell phone from the night before. He cleared his throat and heard the butter knife Dean was holding clatter to the floor. He pressed his lips together in a thin line. This wasn’t a great start for this conversation._ _

__“Dean, sit. I wanna talk to you before Sam gets out here.” John pressed on, despite Dean’s obvious nerves. Dean reluctantly placed the butter knife he’d retrieved from the floor into the sink. He carried over his and Sam’s breakfast, setting it down careful not to spill anything, before he went to the chair furthest from John and sat on the edge of it, eyeing John wearily._ _

__“Dean…” John said, hesitating slightly before pressing on. “Are you hurt?”_ _

__“Hurt?” Dean asked, before he could stop himself. John frowned._ _

__“I...we...went out last night?” John asked._ _

__“Is that what we call it?” Dean murmured back before he could stop himself. His brain was still too exhausted for this._ _

__“Don’t give me attitude, Dean.” John warned, his voice going hard._ _

__“Yes sir.”_ _

__“Dean, I don’t...I was really drunk last night. I don’t remember.” He admitted. He was reaching into his jacket pocket as he spoke. Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t know whether or not John wanted him to answer._ _

__“So do you need these or not?” John shook a couple pills out of the bottle and into his palm. He stretched his hand out to Dean, offering them to him. Dean eyed the bottle in dad’s hand. No, he wasn’t hurt, but yes he wanted them._ _

__If he took them, he wouldn’t care about the night before. He wouldn’t care about driving further and further away from the escape he’d been offered at Sony’s. He wouldn’t pay attention to the towns they passed. He wouldn’t pay attention to the hours as they slipped by. He wouldn’t care that dad was there in the front seat._ _

__He considered the next ten hours of travel. He could pass them floating in the back seat lying against Sam if he took what dad was offering. Sam likely wouldn’t mind the company in back even though it was out of the ordinary._ _

__“Dean.” John said, catching his attention again. Dean could hear the bathroom door opening, Sam would be here in less than a minute. “Come on Dean, tell me what you need.”_ _

__“Yes, I need them.” Dean whispered before reaching out, ignoring the two pills in John’s outstretched hand and taking the bottle. He shoved it in his pocket just in time for Sam to round the corner and join them for the toast and cereal that was waiting on the table._ _

__Dad had slipped the rejected tablets back into his pocket and greeted Sam, asking if he was ready to go. Dean ate quietly while Sam and dad talked. It was polite conversation, nothing like the way Sam used to beg dad to listen to his made up stories, or the detailed summaries about what Sam had done in the time they’d been away from each other. Sam didn’t talk to dad like that anymore and didn’t share most of the details of his life openly with dad anymore. He hadn’t really for a couple of years. Instead he talked to dad with almost the same distance he addressed strangers, though often with more attitude than he showed anyone else. Dean tuned out their conversation, concentrating on the pills in his pocket and knowing he wasn’t going to miss anything important in the exchange._ _

__When he was finished, he put his dishes in the sink to wash up when Sam was done, and then excused himself to the bathroom. He locked the door and sat up on the sink counter where Sam had sat the night before waiting for him in the shower. He pulled out the bottle of pills and turned it over in his hands._ _

__Dad had no idea what had happened the night before, so maybe that counted as it having never happened and Dean could just forget about it. Dad hadn’t even taken Dean’s clothes off or touched him somewhere new. Dad didn’t know, Sam didn’t know, and nothing had...happened. That’s what he would try to do and it would be okay. He shivered and looked sideways at himself in the mirror, studying his own lost expression._ _

__He was aware that the sick shameful feeling still hanging in his stomach and the new tears sliding down his face that he hadn’t noticed until now were both good indicators that things weren’t at all okay, but he would deal with it. He always dealt with it. He unscrewed the child lock easily, and shook two of the pills out into his palm turning them over in his fingers once before swallowing them down. He wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his face to dry it, shoved the pills back into his pocket and straightened in front of the sink leaning on it for a few seconds to breathe._ _

__He’d only have to pretend that things were okay for the next twenty minutes or so before he’d stop caring. After that they’d be in the car and on their way. And after that he wouldn’t be aware enough to care about anything but Sam._ _


	11. Rock Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's 17  
> Sam's 13
> 
> Warnings: Sexual abuse, physical abuse, underage sex, underage binge-drinking, underage drugs wincest... that might be it. read with caution please.
> 
> Summary:
> 
> Sam felt responsible for this. Sam was the one that rebelled and usually got away with it somewhat, not Dean. Dean never got away with anything. Sam was the one who had told Dean to go after convincing him that he wouldn’t get caught. Dean almost never broke the rules, even simple stupid ones and the one time he had he was going to get busted.

Bobby put down the shotgun, watching the Winchester car peel out of his driveway. He was pissed. John had gone radio silent and had been gone for an entire month just to saunter up to his door like it was no big deal.

A whole month with no contact, no hint as to where John was, and the boys had acted as though that was to be expected. Bobby had started worrying around week two when John hadn’t checked in and Sam had just shrugged almost indifferently, but not quite, and had told him not to worry yet. Dean had seemed more concerned than Sam, the faintest shadow of helplessness just visible behind his stoic gaze, but he’d quickly changed the trajectory of the conversation away from John’s absence. Those looks on both of the boys had cemented it for Bobby.

From Sam’s indifference and Dean’s quick intervention into Bobby’s line of questioning, Bobby had slotted a few more of the Winchester puzzle pieces together. This was normal. John Winchester leaving the boys for this long without a check-in was considered normal. He wondered how long it had been going on and felt like kicking himself for never looking more closely into Dean’s explanations and excuses over the years. If this was anything as routine as Sam had made it sound, no wonder Dean was always so high-strung and tightly-wound.

Bobby regretted using the rifle already. It was just loaded with rock salt, but he was pretty sure shooting after John’s car was going to be the last nail in the coffin of their tenuous friendship. Bobby had been so angry. He hadn’t been thinking clearly, but he couldn’t take it back now.

He hoped Dean knew to call if he ever needed anything, but in the back of his mind Bobby knew Dean wouldn’t, even in an emergency. With Bobby on John’s blacklist, Dean would fall into place and distance himself too. Bobby didn’t know for certain about Sam. On the one hand, Sam was rebellious sometimes when it came to John and broke rules just to start a fight. On the other, when Dean asked him to follow Sam was generally inclined to listen. It would come down to Dean standing up to John.

Bobby sighed sadly, feeling the weight of his actions heavy across his shoulders. If it was up to Dean to take a stand against John Winchester…

Bobby had just accidentally severed ties with both boys along with their father.

***

Three days later, the night before Sam and Dean were going to start at yet another school in yet another town, Sam was sitting at the head of one of the double beds of the hotel dad had rented for the next however-long-he-decided they were staying. There were several hunts in the area and surrounding town that John planned to tackle and he’d chosen here as home base for the time being. They were within walking distance of everything they’d need for the duration of their stay, making it convenient for the days or weeks when John would be away.

Sam was sorting through his binders, taking out the work he’d completed from his last school in Sioux Falls, and getting ready to go to his next one. He always kept his assignments, the ones that counted and got graded, for the duration of the school year. He kept them in a separate binder, separated by school and arranged by date and subject. He used them as assurance that he would always have some sort of proof that he’d earned the grades on his transcripts. He knew it was overkill, there had never been an issue between transfers and he was smart enough to jump in and catch up. Still, it mattered enough to him that he carried the assignments forward with him from town to town, hotel to hotel, school to school- just in case. He threw out everything else.

As Sam sorted his work, Dean sat at the foot of the same bed, cross legged and messing around with the radio he’d taken from the nightstand. He had it unplugged and had tugged it into his lap. Sam wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he had taken the back off and was dissecting it with a small set of screwdrivers. Sam was curious, but not surprised. Shop, whether the school focused on woodworking, metal working, or mechanics, was the only class Dean averaged above eighty, ever so often edging into the nineties.

Sam figured it was a combination of natural inclination and interest that caused Dean’s success in those areas. Dean was both good at and enjoyed those types of activities, so he skipped that particular class less when there were free materials lying there at his disposal. Dean was crazy good at anything that required the use of tools or spacial reasoning.

When Sam had struggled with understanding basic electric circuits in his science class, Dean had been able to draw him simple sketches that explained how the electricity flowed and why. To help write Sam’s report, Dean had taken apart a microwave and had used the parts to show him an example. Sam had memorized the words Dean had used and had copied Dean’s sketches. Together they’d scored pretty high on that particular science lab, but with Dean’s help that hadn’t been surprising. Dean was always taking something apart and putting it back together. His Walkman, the Impala when dad would let him touch it, the junk cars in Bobby’s lot...

Oh.

Sam didn’t know if they’d ever even see the junk cars in Bobby’s lot again, let alone Bobby. Sam felt a lump rise in his throat and he swallowed it down. He’d been trying hard not to think about Bobby for the last couple of days. Dean hadn’t mentioned anything connected to Bobby since dad’s explosion in the car and Sam wasn’t about to ask John about it. He decided now was a good time to try Dean. Dad was out and Dean seemed about as relaxed as he ever got.

“Dad was really pissed the other day.” Sam said, looking up over his pages at Dean as Dean dropped another screw into the tiny pile of them he’d made in front of himself. Dean didn’t look away from the alarm clock and started twisting out another screw. There were only a couple more left to remove before he could detach the top casing and see the inside and the wiring. Sam didn’t know if Dean could even hear him. Sometimes when Dean was tinkering with something, he zoned out farther than Sam did when he was reading. “Do you think we’ll ever go back to Bobby’s?”

Dean definitely heard that. His hand stopped twisting the screwdriver he was working with and he sat unmoving looking down at the little alarm clock in his hands. He didn’t reply right away, but bit his lip, frowning.

The drive from Bobby’s had been horrible. The atmosphere in the car had been so thick that even Sam had sat quiet and at attention for the duration of the ten hour drive. John’s rage had been terrifying. They’d swerved between lanes on the highway as John had sworn at and road raged towards every car they encountered. Sam had been sure that they would die there on the highway in the Impala after a near miss with a transport truck, and Dean had ground his teeth together hearing the way the engine and brakes had suffered under John’s uncharacteristically harsh handling. Neither boy had dared to voice their individual concerns.

“I don’t know.” Dean said, finally looking up at him.

“That’s a no.” Sam could already see the real answer in the set of Dean’s jaw.

“Yeah.” Dean exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping as he turned his attention back to the radio in his hands. Dad had spent the whole first three hours of the drive ranting about Bobby without seeming to stop for air. He ranted about how Singer was a drunk. He ranted about how Singer needed to mind his business. He ranted about Singer shooting at his car. During all of John’s exposition about Singer’s faults, he didn’t mention where he’d been or why Bobby hadn’t heard from him in weeks. From that tirade, Dean was fairly certain dad had lost Bobby’s number and that they had just lost their favourite place to visit.

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.” Dean said tightly. He didn’t know what Sam wanted him to do about it. He couldn’t go back and make Bobby put the gun down. He couldn’t make dad stop being an inconsiderate asshole whenever he felt like it. He didn’t have any more power over their situation than Sam did, even though Sam always looked to him for the answers. They fell back into silence as Sam busied himself with his binder again and Dean went back to concentrating on the alarm clock.

When Sam was finished emptying his binders, he cleared his things into his backpack and stretched out on his side across the bed to watch what Dean was doing. He was careful as he moved not to make any of Dean’s little piles of screws and washers roll away across the mattress.

“We could call him anyway you know.” Sam said after a little while of watching Dean remove the insides of the clock. Dean’s hands were steady and sure, gently moving the little wires with care as not to break their connections.

“Wanna know how to make a bomb?” Dean dodged Sam’s suggestion. It seemed fitting. What Sam was talking about doing would blow up in their faces if they ever got caught. Plus, it wasn’t really a bad skill for Sam to know a few different ways to handle explosives. Dean didn’t want to talk about Bobby anymore.

“Yeah, I do.” Sam said quickly. “But, Dean listen. We could call Bobby.”

“Not that hard really, Sammy. If you have some kind of fuel.” Dean said a little more loudly than necessary. “Good to know how to diffuse one too.”

“Stop talking over me, Dean.” Sam said angrily. He hated it when Dean refused to listen to him. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

“Then stop being suicidal.” Dean snapped back. “We just have to get over it.”

“That’s bullshit.” Sam said, glaring at Dean.

“Maybe, but that’s life.” Dean said angrily. Dean was always better than Sam about accepting the unfair things in their lives, but it didn’t mean he liked them. Dean set down the screwdriver and scrubbed a hand over his eyes, exhaling tiredly. “Dad’s not going to change his mind.”

Sam watched Dean for a few seconds, his own shoulders sinking. He’d expected Dean to say no, but it had been worth a try. Dean was right. John Winchester rarely changed his mind. Sam was on his own if he wanted to try to contact Bobby. He probably wouldn’t. If dad caught him calling Bobby Dean would be in trouble too, even if he hadn’t been in on the plan. Whenever they got in trouble, Dean was always in significantly more trouble than Sam was.

“So.” Sam said softly, resigned not to bring it up again. “About that bomb thing...how’s that work?”

Dean gave him a grateful, but sad, smile and handed him a screwdriver.

***

“Jim’s number?” John asked, not looking up at Dean and Sam as he quickly filled in the paperwork registering them for classes. They were about twenty minutes late for school and both Sam and Dean were holding copies of their new schedules, waiting to head out once John was done in the office. John was hovering over the space for an emergency contact number. Dean repeated it back slowly so that John could write it out on the form. Dean felt his stomach swoop as dad skipped the secondary emergency contact, where he usually put Bobby, without bothering to write anything. For Dean, it confirmed what he and Sam had discussed the night before.

They really were all on their own now.

***

The first day at a new school always kind of sucked, but there was a blond in his homeroom who had been watching him since he’d walked in this morning. He’d overheard her name while people had been chatting and settling back down after the morning break. She was cute, and her name was Susie. It was almost the end of class and Dean was completely zoned out considering his options. Dean was probably going to flirt with her, probably even get farther than that if she was interested and he set his mind to it.

It was something he’d started doing not long after he’d left Sony’s almost a year ago. His short relationship with Robin, the girl he’d dated while he’d been in the boys home, had been full of the first love butterflies that people in romantic comedies gushed about. Then, predictably, he’d left and that had felt worse than he’d anticipated. Dean had never bothered to make friends at school for that reason; the leaving. He’d gotten too comfortable at Sony’s and had gotten caught up in following what he wanted instead of what he knew was safer and smarter. Getting attached was a mistake. Things were never permanent for a hunter, and he understood now that that was what he was.

Dean had accepted it completely on a hunt with dad and Sam. They’d taken a werewolf down and it had clicked into place. He’d known in the back of his head for a longtime that this was the lifelong trajectory he was locked into, but he felt it with certainty now. Any shred of doing something else had been knocked out of him. Between the hurt of leaving Sony’s and the increasing frequency with which John was opting to take Dean along, Dean had stopped looking, or even glancing around, for ways out of the life.

Dad drafted him fairly regularly, sometimes bringing Sam when Sam was on break from school or if he showed a particular interest in a case. Not wanting to miss much time from school where they missed so much already, Sam had elected to take on a sort of research and information role when they needed extra help. As much as Sam tried to act disinterested in John and as much as he sometimes hated John, he and Dean both were hungry for John’s approval and Sam was remarkably good at sifting through the lore.

When Dean was left back with Sam, he was finding it increasingly hard to play at normal the way he always had and girls were an amazing distraction. He’d noticed that if he smiled the right way, licked his lips at the right moment, blinked a certain way, or said the right things, girls tended to blush and ask him if he was busy later. He went on a lot of dates. They weren’t really dates, but that’s what he called them when he talked to Sam. A ‘date’ actually meant that he’d be busy for a while making it to second, sometimes third, base at a secluded lookout in ‘her’-whoever she was that week- parents’ car or under the bleachers.

He cycled through girls quickly and tended to drop them as soon as they said anything sounding remotely like ‘I love you’, since that meant they were crazy because they didn’t even know each other, or ‘meet my parents’ which indicated a want to get to know each other. He liked girls and messing around with girls, but they didn’t know his life and they couldn’t really be part of it. Dean bailed quickly every single time. He was strictly interested in whatever he could get physically and nothing more.

John had never really given Dean much resembling ‘the talk’, just a single crude sentence a couple years ago telling Dean to keep it covered and not to get anyone knocked up. Dean gathered that meant dad didn’t give a shit whether he had sex or not, so finding willing girls to feel up was a safe way to get out of his head and he did it as often as he could.

Some of the reason for Dean’s promiscuity came from resenting the fact that he couldn’t have anything long term. Some of it came from wanting distraction from the more confusing relationships in his life. Some of it was wanting to feel something that felt good and uncomplicated - and it always felt good. A still larger portion of it came from being frustrated with the things he thought about doing with Sam, but he didn’t like to let himself dive to deep into that pool of thought.

Today, Dean’s main reason for wanting distraction was that he was angry with dad and couldn’t do anything about it. He was angry with the way John did what he wanted without apology or consideration. He was angry with the fact that he and Sam didn’t have much choice but to silently follow. He was angry that he wasn’t bold enough to call Bobby the way Sam wanted to. He was angry for the way dad had ripped him from the Impala the night they’d left Bobby's, long after Sam had fallen asleep, to work out his rage on Dean’s body the same way John had been doing for years. Dean couldn’t do anything about any of it, but he could lose as much of his mind as possible with anyone who was willing to give him a second glance and ten minutes of their time. Susie’s blushes and glances from across the room had him convinced she’d give him at least fifteen.

When the bell rang, people around him started getting up and he pulled out his schedule to check where his next class was. Someone had stopped beside him, and he looked up from his schedule with a raised eyebrow.

“Hey.” She said, her cheeks blushing a little as she leaned against his desk. “I’m Susie. Do you need someone to show you to your next class?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Dean smiled, giving his bottom lip a tiny lick to test her reaction. Her eyes darted to his mouth and she smiled back, a little shy. Well. That was easy.

In Dean’s opinion, five minutes travel time between classes was not nearly enough.

***

As the weekend got closer, dad called, surprisingly, and let them know he’d be about a week after all, while he and his contact did some digging. That suited Sam and Dean just fine. They were used to getting by on their own.

At school, Dean already had a small following. Sam had noticed that as Dean had gotten older he'd gotten more popular. Despite Dean’s tendencies to avoid honest conversation with strangers and to casually rebel against authority that wasn't their father, he had been slotting in with their peers easily since his last growth spurt. There was something charismatic about the personality Dean had learned to put on when they were in the school yard. He never distanced himself from Sam, like Sam watched other siblings do when they arrived to school, but he put on this 'Other Dean' mask. ‘Other Dean’ smiled too much, flirted uncontrollably, and tended to get caught with girls in storage closets between class.

Sam didn't really get it. It had made him so jealous the first time he’d seen Dean with his arms wrapped around some girl with his tongue in her mouth. The jealousy had faded quickly though when he’d spotted Dean doing the same thing with some other girl the next morning. It had become pretty obvious to Sam by girl four-in-one-week that, for better or worse, Dean didn't really care about any of them. Sam had the distinct impression that there was something off and unhealthy about the way Dean jumped from girl to girl. Dean wasn’t ever as attached to the girls he dated as they were to him. That didn’t seem to matter to Dean though. He still backed them up against their lockers and kissed them until other girls around- because there were always other girls in little groups hovering around Dean now- started to giggle and blush.

That reaction, Sam understood- even if he thought it was stupid. Dean had always been good looking, but his shoulders had broadened out in the last year and his jaw had taken on a hard angle that hadn't existed there before. Sam could appreciate what girls saw when they looked at Dean, but they didn't really know him. Dean was never ‘Dean’ around them; he was always ‘Other Dean’.

They knew the Dean that laughed carelessly and didn’t give a crap about anything. They’d never coaxed Dean back when was teetering on the brink of a breakdown. They were never the ones that got him breathing through a panic attack. They never saw him trembling and uncertain. Dean never let on how tired he was, or how stressed he was, or how long it had been since their dad had last checked in to any of the girls he messed around with. From Sam’s count, Dean's longest relationships tended to fizzle out near the one week mark.

Dean had seemingly given his following the slip at the moment and was drumming his fingers on the table in front of himself in a broken rhythm. It was the kind of unsteadiness that crept into Dean when he was undecided about something or didn’t know what to do. Sam couldn’t think of a reason for Dean to be on edge yet.

Dad wasn’t due back, and as far as Sam was aware they had plenty of groceries and money for the time being, though Dean didn’t always tell him when things got tight. Sam set down his pencil and looked at his brother across the table from him. They were in the school library, where Sam was doing last week and this week’s math assignments over lunch so that he was on the same page as everyone else.

“Problem?” Sam asked, quiet and to the point. They were alone except for the librarian who was checking in books from the return bin over at her desk. No one else seemed to really hung out in the library at this school during lunch. It was kind of nice to have somewhere to disappear.

“It’s stupid.” Dean muttered back.

“Usually is.” Sam smirked playfully.

“There’s this party.” Dean said slowly. “Friday. It’s at Susie Richard’s house. She’s got a pool.”

“You wanna go.” Sam stated.

“I dono.” Dean said honestly.

“You do.” Sam concluded. Dean was never very good at sorting out his own feelings, especially when there wasn’t a clear indication one way or another what the right thing to do was. Sam was though. Dean never took the time to agonize over things unless he was invested somehow. “You should if you want to.”

“Dad…” Dean wasn’t sure. His interest in Susie had started as wanting a distraction from dad and how angry Dean still was about what had happened with Bobby. Now that he was sufficiently distracted, he was curious about the new experience, but he didn’t know what the rules were.

Dean had taken Sam to a few kids’ parties a long time ago. They’d never been found out, but Dean had never clarified in order to claim ignorance if they’d ever been caught attending one. Those had been quick afternoon birthday parties with cake, too much candy, treat bags, and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. He’d hidden it from dad as a kid because they hadn’t usually been allowed to do things like that, but it had been worth the risk. Sam had laughed a lot on those days.

Dean wasn’t sure if this was worth the risk and this party would be nothing like the ones he’d taken Sam to. He kind of wanted to go. He kind of wanted to see what it was like since he’d never before. Dean knew in his gut the answer from dad would be no if he was there to ask.

“He’s not here.” Sam shrugged, picking back up his pencil and going back to his assignments.

***

Dean hadn’t spent many nights away from Sam in his life. When Dean and John would leave hunting, it was never for more than a week, and Dean didn’t venture far otherwise. Maybe it was the shtriga attack that had been his fault back before Sammy had been able to take care of himself, but even now that they were older and Sam sometimes stayed on his own, Dean didn’t like to stray too far. A lifetime of living in each other’s pockets with the constantly reinforced need to have an awareness of where Sam was had made him the type to come home for the night.

It was past eleven, but not midnight yet. He was walking back from Susie Richard’s. He was stumbling a little, so he decided to take the walk slow. He was more than drunk and a little high, and he knew walking home alone was a shit plan even though it was what he’d decided to do. A cab had been too much and he hadn’t trusted the offers for a drive home from people on the back deck who were definitely more sloshed than he was.

His skin was buzzing from a mix of weed and liquor. He’d had beer before, and he’d felt tipsy before, but this was a whole new level of off center. After several more beer than he’d ever consumed in a row before someone had passed around a bong and, not wanting to make a big deal of it, he’d taken a few hits along with the rest of the group.

He’d almost thrown up on the first inhale, but after a few tries and learning how to draw in the smoke, it hadn’t been so bad. The sensation had reminded him of the way the painkillers he kept stowed in his bag made him feel, drifting and relaxed, but sharper and the weed hadn’t knocked him out completely the way the pills did. He’d liked it. A lot. He’d never have access to this like he did the pills though. He’d never given them back to John after taking possession of the bottle, and when he ran out John usually replaced them without a word.

As he narrowly avoided falling into the ditch, he blamed Sam for his current state of intoxication. It was Sam who had pried out of him what was on his mind in the library at school. It was Sam who had told him to go. It was Sam who, in the afternoon when Dean had been considering bailing on the party, had cornered Dean in their hotel room. It was Sam who had pushed him back onto one of the beds, telling him to relax, to go have fun, that it would be okay. Because it was Friday night. And dad was gone and not coming back for a couple days. And Sam had a project he could work on while Dean was out and then they’d hang out all weekend.

“She thinks she’s my girlfriend.” Dean had said, licking his lips and looking up at Sam and feeling weirdly embarrassed; they didn’t generally talk about the girls he spent time with.

“Tell her different or take her flowers.” Sam had suggested cheekily, and then Dean had pushed him off and shoved his hand into Sam’s pants to shut him up, while Sam had laughed in amusement. This thing between him and Sam, their secret... it had become a very casual thing for them, but Sam very rarely even asked to touch him back anymore. Dean had rules and Sam followed them.

Dean was almost back to the hotel now, and he was hoping Sam was asleep. Not that it made much difference if Sam was awake, but Dean wanted time on his own to think before he had to figure out his head and put back on a self-assured face he knew Sam always saw through anyway. He just needed a break from being himself for a bit. He wanted to shower, maybe steal another beer from the fridge, float in this detached fuzzy apathy he’d sunken into, and watch whatever garbage he could find on TV until he fell asleep.

The whole night had been fun, but he had a lot his brain wanted to think about alone. He’d had sex, all the way to home base, for the first time and it was an experience he didn’t see himself turning down ever in the future. Seven hours after getting Sam off in the hotel, he’d been lying in Susie’s bed while the bass from the music made the windows rattle and the party went on downstairs without them. She’d sat across his hips, grinding down onto him as he’d held onto her tightly, trying to get friction. She’d helped him out of his shirt and jeans, he’d fumbled with her bra and her small soft hands had trailed the muscles across his chest.

“What are these?” She’d asked, skimming her hand over top of some light yellow, very faded bruises on his rib cage. Those ones were old and had come from a hunt before he and Sam had been left at Bobby’s.

“Pick up game of football.” He said with a nervous grin. Her long brown hair was down, reaching past her shoulders and tickling his stomach when she leaned down to kiss him.

“What about this?” She’d asked with a frown when they’d broken apart, brushing a blurry impression of John’s palm bruised black into the flesh of his shoulder. It was from the night John had picked the boys up from Bobby’s. It didn’t hurt anymore, but it was the definite shape of a handprint.

“That one?” Dean had asked, holding her steady as he’d rolled them over so that he was crouched over top of her instead. He’d felt her legs wrap around his waist. “Got in a fight. Should have seen the other guy.”

Then he’d done what he always did after years of avoiding Sam’s questions. He’d very carefully popped open the button of her jeans and gotten to work.

He groaned when he reached the parking lot and saw the light in their room still on through the curtain of the window. He didn’t want to talk about it yet, maybe ever, but he knew Sam would ask him when he walked through the door how the night had gone.

He didn’t even know why that was a question he was dreading. It wasn’t like Sam had ever commented on any of the girls Dean kissed at school. It wasn’t like Dean had to go into detail with an answer. It wasn’t like Sam would even care what the answer was provided that he, Dean, seemed to be okay. He decided to play it casual. The party had been fun, thanks for asking. Shower, snack, and a movie maybe. That was his plan.

Until he noticed the Impala parked in front of the motel.

His body’s automatic response, before his head even caught up with what he was seeing, was to break into a cold sweat and vomit. He stumbled down into the ditch, crouched low and retching hard. He tried to catch his breath between waves of nausea and sick, but he was gagging too hard to make himself calm down. He felt like he was drowning and he wondered how long it would take of him not being able to breathe until he passed out in a pool of his own vomit. His hands were shaking where they’d sunken into the muddy ground beneath him and his jeans were streaked with mud.

He didn’t know how long he crouched there on his hands and knees rasping for breath. His concept of time felt a little funny and he felt like time was too short and too long at the same time. He’d never had his head this disoriented before. His body felt sluggish from the alcohol but all his senses seemed louder from the drugs and it was so jumbled. He’d been relaxed before, but now that there was danger the substances inside of him were releasing the most intense panic attack he had ever experienced and he couldn’t even tell if time was passing or not.

He was frozen, sputtering in the mud and shuddering as his body refused to let him take control. He was all alone and he didn’t have a plan.

He just knew he had no one to call for help and he couldn’t go home.

***

Sam was grateful when he found himself awake before dad in the morning. Somehow he’d been lucky, even though he’d stayed up long past dad had fallen asleep on the opposite bed. Dad had gotten home late, and then had drank the night away until it was early, and Sam had lied on the bed staring at the door praying Dean wouldn’t come home until dad passed out. Sam’s prayers were half-answered; Dean hadn’t returned at all.

Sam slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in the dark, not wanting to risk turning on a light and waking the sleeping hunter. He tucked a gun into the pocket of his sweater, and grabbed a slim jim from Dean’s bag. He was pretty sure he knew how to use it and he didn’t know where dad’s keys were. Sam shoved his shoes on as quietly as possible, keeping an eye on dad and hoping he could get through the door without waking him.

Sam needed to find Dean. He didn’t have a plan other than ‘find Dean’ which he knew was trash. Dean hadn’t taken the satellite phone with him to the stupid party, so it wasn’t like he could call Dean to find out where he was, even if he did track down a payphone. Sam didn’t know where Susan or Sharon or whatever-her-name-was lived. It was five thirty in the morning so it wasn’t like he could even call the friends from school he hadn’t made yet to ask them where he could find some obscure party when he couldn’t remember the name of the host. It was complete shit, but that didn’t matter. He had to get out there and find his brother before Dean showed up, probably screwed up, unaware of their father’s return and got in so much crap that Sam had no idea what would happen.

Sam felt responsible for this. Sam was the one that rebelled and usually got away with it somewhat, not Dean. Dean never got away with anything. Sam was the one who had told Dean to go after convincing him that he wouldn’t get caught. Dean almost never broke the rules, even simple stupid ones and the one time he had he was going to get busted.

Sam pushed open the door, closing it as gently as he could and freezing outside the motel room. He didn’t hear John stir behind the door, so Sam set off across the parking lot towards the Impala hoping to find something there that would inspire him as to how he was going to find Dean in the very early morning in this stupid town. If dad had a map in the glove compartment, maybe Sam could find some local diners or coffee shops to see if Dean had wandered in there. They hadn’t really spent much time walking around town yet and he didn’t have a clue where anything was. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

What he didn’t expect was to find Dean curled in on himself wrapped in the car blanket on the back bench when he went to shove the slim jim he’d stolen into the window. Instead he knocked on the glass, feeling relieved and confused. Dean didn’t uncurl or really respond, but he did reach out blindly with one hand and pull the lock on one of the doors so that Sam could get inside.

“Dean, did you sleep out here?” Sam asked, closing the front door as quietly as he could. Sam didn’t miss how Dean flinched at the sound and hide his face in the blanket. Sam had seen dad hungover plenty of times to recognize it when he saw it. Sam reached down to rub a hand over Dean’s back, sitting up on his knees so that he could look down at Dean more easily. Dean smelled like beer, puke, and something weird and unfamiliar. He was covered in mud. “God, Dean. You reek.”

“Yeah.” Dean whispered, turning his face to the side to look up at Sam when Sam spoke.

“You alright?” Sam asked.

“No.” His head was pounding and it was hard to keep his eyes open against the dim light as the sun started to rise. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. “What am I going to do, Sammy?”

“It’ll be okay.” Sam said quickly, trying to sound reassuring. The truth was Sam had no idea either, but he needed to try to fix this. He was thinking about how many steps it was going to take to sneak past dad and to get Dean into the shower once they made it to the door even though he knew that plan wasn’t much better than ‘find Dean’ had been moments before. He supposed he could bag up and throw out Dean’s clothes to get rid of the smell. Dad wouldn’t notice one of Dean’s random thrift store shirts missing and it would take away some of the proof of where Dean had been last night. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

“And then what are we-” Dean stopped talking abruptly. His was staring at his own shirt and had gone a dangerous off white colour. He remembered throwing up. He’d been on all fours in the ditch. He’d gotten it on his hands, but he’d wiped them off in the grass. He didn’t remember getting it on his shirt. In fact, he distinctly remembered being glad that he hadn’t gotten it on his clothes. Dean felt cold-hot all over in fear.

Had he thrown up without knowing? Had he thrown up in dad’s car without knowing?

He scrambled onto his side and looked down at the floor of the Impala terrified of what he was sure he’d find beside him.

“Dean-” Sam said grabbing his shoulder in alarm as he collapsed against the leather letting out a relieved sob. Clean. The car was still clean. “What’s wrong, what-”

“I don’t remember....” Dean said shakily. He could remember being in the ditch, retching and gagging as he considered just how bad whatever John was going to do to him would be when he got caught, but he didn’t remember getting it on himself. “Sammy, I’m covered in puke and I don’t remem-”

“Dean. Get it together.” Sam said, uncharacteristically harsh and clipped. His eyes were wide and scared too, but he was very aware the sun starting to creep up. “ We need to go before he wakes up.”

“We won’t make it, Sam.”

“Yeah, we will.” Sam insisted. “I got past without him waking up.”

“And after wakes up?” Dean said desperately. “I wasn’t there. He always wants me there.”

“We lie.” Sam said, not at all clear on what they should say, but determined this had to work. Dean stared at Sam for almost a full thirty seconds before he exploded into a screaming whisper.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Dean asked, sitting up too quickly and almost throwing up again from how his stomach churned. “Go the fuck back in there and go back to bed.”

“He’ll believe us.” Sam insisted, tugging at Dean’s arm and trying to make him listen even though Dean was already shaking his head.

“No, he won’t.” Dean groaned. “Even if we get past him, even if I get cleaned up, even if I don’t accidentally puke in front of him, he’s going to know, Sam.”

“We’ll tell him you were hunting.” Sam said, grasping at the only idea he’d managed to form that seemed halfway like it would be believable. “We’ll tell him it was a ghost or something that didn’t want to burn.”

“He’s not going to believe that.”

“Yes, he will.”

“Do I look like I’ve been hunting to you?” Dean hissed. “I’m not hurt or tired in the right ways...I’m not fresh off a hunt and he’s going to know. Monsters attack you, Sam. They don’t give you hungover.”

They looked at each other quietly, letting that sink in between them. Sam couldn’t argue with it. They’d both seen dad and the injuries he always brought home. Dean had even come home with a few of his own after the hunts he and dad went on. There was a big difference between what it looked like getting hurt in a hunt versus suffering a vengeful hangover.

“Unless...we faked it.” Dean murmured, breaking the silence and making Sam frown.

“Fake it?” Sam asked, not liking the sound of what Dean was suggesting.

“Yeah...So that he believes us. If there...if there’s…marks...” Dean swallowed, watching Sam closely and barely believing the words coming out of his own mouth.

“Dean...” Sam bit his lip uncertainty.

“No. You’re right.” Dean backpedaled. He could take care of this himself. Sam being out here at all was a mistake. “Sam, you need to go back in.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything too bad, right?” Sam considered, shaking his head at Dean’s request for him to go back inside. Sam didn’t like this at all, but he’d seen how angry dad had been when he’d come home looking for Dean and found him absent and unaccounted for. He’d woken Sam, and demanded to know where Dean was, and when Sam had replied ‘no idea’ dad had gone into an alcohol fueled frenzy. Sam had quickly lost count of how many drinks dad had slammed back while watching the door.

Sam didn’t want that anger unleashed on his brother, especially when it was practically Sam’s fault Dean had been out in the first place, and maybe this lie could save some of the consequences from being too severe. Hunting was definitely a better reason to be absent than some stupid party. Sam had seen too many of Dean’s bruises by accident to not understand what was going on, even if Dean never talked about it and would shut him down in an instant if he ever dared broach the subject.

“Yeah. Just some bruises or something.” Dean shrugged. Sam looked down at his hands in his lap. He’d given Dean tons of bruises over the years. In sparring matches, by accident with his elbows and knees as they slept, when he’d been little and had toddler tantrums that he barely remembered, when he and Dean had real fights where they actually wanted to punch each other in the face….but this was different from all those other times. Dean was already so hollow looking and taking a swing was the last thing Sam felt inclined to do. Still, Dean was right. It would increase their odds significantly.

“We’re really doing this?” Sam asked. He could hear Dean swallow even as he was nodding his head. “How are we going to...what are we gona..?”

Dean didn’t answer, but kicked the back door of the Impala open and hauled himself out onto the pavement, fighting the way the movement made his head spin and the way his eyes had a hard time focusing. He wondered if it was possible to be hungover and still drunk at the same time. Sam followed, and got out of the front of the car, closing the door cautiously.

“Come on.” Dean said, gesturing to himself vaguely. “Like if we were sparring. It’ll be enough.”

“You already look like shit, Dean.” Sam moaned, taking a stance and planting his feet to do as he was told.

“Make it count, Sammy.” Dean replied, waiting for the impact. Sam’s fists connected in quick succession with the soft part of his stomach. He hadn’t been expecting the second blow, and he collapsed in on himself a little before forcing himself straight and wrapping his arm across his midriff. He was gasping for air and swallowing quickly to stop himself from spilling whatever contents were left in his stomach. Sam had gotten him good, it would definitely bruise. Sam looped an apologetic arm around his waist and they headed towards the door.

There was no way in hell this was going to work.

***

It was a day and a half before Dean finally got what he’d known was coming. Miraculously, dad had believed them, but that didn’t make up for the fact that what they’d lied about Dean doing, going off on his own on a hunt without telling anyone where or what, was only a couple steps up in terms of stupid from the truth.

In the bathroom after Dean had been collected from the Impala, Sam had forced a couple of glasses of water into him and supplied Advil. He’d shoved Dean in the shower and had quickly gone about getting rid of Dean’s clothes. When Sam had come back Dean had been clean and changed into the loose pair of pajama bottoms Sam had left out. Sam’s eyes had lingered on the purple bruises that were forming on Dean’s stomach, but Dean had quickly pulled a shirt over his head to cover himself. Dean had been passed out asleep on the bed across from dad’s long before John had woken up with his own nasty headache and bleary eyes. By the time John had awoken and gotten caffeinated enough to be angry about the night before, Dean’s headache had cleared somewhat and the light didn’t burn his eyes so much.

They’d told their story, dad had screamed and sworn at Dean, ranted about how reckless he’d been, and had told him to never do something so stupid again. He’d left to get them lunch shortly after, still grumbling, and Dean had collapse back into the bed not daring to believe their luck.

Dean had been beyond grateful for the chance to rest and sleep through the hangover he and Sam had worked to conceal from dad. Even though dad had left him alone to recover the day after his alleged run in with ghosts, Dean had known he hadn’t avoided the storm. They’d only pushed it off course temporarily while dad’s anger downgraded from a hurricane to a tropical storm. Dad had been pissed, more than pissed, even though he’d believed them and Dean never got away with anything when dad had that hardened dangerous look in his eyes.

Tonight, John had woken him around two forty and pulled him outside in his pajamas and some hastily shoved on sneakers. Part of Dean wanted dad to hurt him and was already anticipating the upcoming closure. Knowing this was coming was always worse than enduring whatever John had in mind and Dean had sunk so low into hating himself that it felt like he needed it. He was waiting for relief from the weight of the lie that they’d told and he wanted to suffer for the way Sam had found him.

He regretted going to the party. He regretted getting himself that messed up. He regretted getting Sam involved and for so carelessly breaking rules when he knew better. God, did he know better. He was disgusted with himself. It was a familiar sensation, but this time it cut deep and to the bone. He hated himself for Sam finding him that way in the car. Sam was perceptive, and he’d cornered Dean about the shame and pain Dean had been trying to hide when dad had left them alone to go get take out. The conversation was still raw in his ears even though it had happened almost a full day ago:

“What is it?”

“I wish you hadn’t found me in the car.”

“I’m glad I did. We kind of got away with it, Dean-”

“No, Sam. You shouldn’t have to…”

“To what?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean still didn’t want to talk about it, and he had no plan to tell Sam anything more on the subject. Sam didn’t know about any of that and Dean didn’t really want to be the one, again, to let Sam in on another family secret. Sammy had just been a baby. Dean himself barely remembered being that little, tripping over beer cans on the floor of the Impala and shaking dad’s shoulder, wondering why daddy wouldn’t wake up; later on, when Dean had been a little older and understood a little better, wondering if dad would wake up. They were the foggy half-memories of a child, but they were there distant and painful.

He wanted John to punish him for his sins, even the ones John wasn’t aware of, and this familiar game of cat and mouse was one to which Dean knew all the rules. He could lose himself here. Dean started to a halt when he felt John’s hand grasp his shoulder, heavy but not hard.

“Out back, Dean.” John said seeming to change his mind as they reached the edge of the pavement. They’d been gearing up to run. John had told him so when he’d pulled Dean from bed, but now he’d changed his mind. He was eyeing the dark curve of Dean’s neck under the floodlights and despite his initial intentions, he was ignoring their usual routine. “Out back first.”

Dean swallowed, but let John push him towards the side of the motel, out of the light and behind the building.

“Sweater, shirt.” John said, tugging roughly at Dean’s sleeve as they reached a dark secluded spot where they weren’t likely to be seen. Dean stripped the requested clothes quickly and robotic, knowing better than to argue. He expected John to have his belt off already by the time Dean dropped his clothes to the ground, but John was just watching him closely in the dim light.

“You always...always... take backup, Dean.” John said, his eyes were lingering on the bruises Sam had inflicted on Dean as part of their cover story.

“Yes sir.”

“How exactly did you say you got these?” John asked, stepping closer and letting his fingers trace the edges of the darkening bruises that had bloomed where Sam had hit him.

“Threw me into a gravestone.” Dean replied, trying hard not to flinch away as John’s hand flattened against his skin and pressed in a little. It hurt over top of the sensitive dark patch. John turned him around and leaned him against the wall with his hands flat to hold himself steady. He could feel John line up against his back, pressed close, pushing him flat and scraping his stomach against the rough shingles of the building.

“You could have gotten hurt, Dean.” John said quietly in his ear. His voice was dangerous and low. He slid one hand down Dean’s back and closed his other hand around Dean’s throat, tightening Dean’s airflow. Dean shivered, feeling the strength starting to leave his muscles as John’s grip remained steadfast. He was pressed tightly between the wall and John and he couldn’t get free even if he’d had the energy to try.

Dean wondered, almost hysterically, if John’s words about him getting hurt while John hurt him was irony, but he’d never really paid enough attention in English class to know one way or another. If he really wanted to know Sam would definitely be able to tell him, but he couldn’t ask Sam. He blinked hard and tried to refocus. He had no idea why he was thinking about this.

John let the pressure on his throat go just as his vision started to pop with bright spots and Dean gasped for breath, pressed between the wall and his father and trying to ignore what was happening as much as he could. John closed a hand tightly around both of Dean’s wrists, pinning them to the wall above Dean’s head and using the hand around Dean's throat to anchor him to John’s chest. John quickly moved his hand to palm his own handprint still pressed into Dean’s shoulder, feeling Dean hitch at the renewed pain on the old wound. It made Dean want to burn his own skin to take away John’s marks.

John was hard in his jeans and Dean could feel it pressed against his back. John had given up trying to hide his arousal from Dean after it had started happening too regularly to ignore or brush off as coincidental. He didn’t like it, but there was something deliciously addictive about Dean and about thinking about hurting Dean. John always very carefully avoided thinking about what this was, about what this made him.

When it happened, Dean always begged himself to fight back. He never could, frozen in shame and fear. He’d stay locked up wondering what the consequences would be if he tried to shove dad away. for himself, for Sam? It always left him feeling more helpless, more dirty, more like John’s to consume every time he failed to get away.

Dad’s hand had slipped between Dean and the wall, running down Dean’s chest and coming to rest on the waist of Dean’s jeans. Dean closed his eyes, trying not to let his skin break out in goosebumps as John’s breath ghosted over his neck. John closed his fist around Dean’s windpipe briefly again and then kicked him to his knees.

He felt John’s boot connect to the center of his back and his chest thumped against the wall. He cried out at the blunt impact. Another kick caught him in the shoulder. He felt John’s hand in his hair and then dad was tipping his head back, leaning it against John’s thigh to look down at Dean’s face.

“Reckless.” John murmured, his voice predatory. His eyes were dark and he was shaking his head. He released Dean’s hair and letting Dean’s head fall forwards again. He felt John kneel down on one knee behind him, one leg curled into Dean’s side and Dean pulled back tight against John’s chest. John held him tight against his body and closed his hand around Dean’s throat again, making a quiet shushing sound as Dean struggled against his grip.

“Dad, stop...I can’t…” Dean begged after as long as he could take, his eyes watering and his pulse pounding in his ears. For a few sickening seconds Dean could feel the world swimming out of view, but then dad finally let him fall away. John collapsed forwards leaning against his hand propped up by the side of the building and breathing hard while Dean dropped to all fours underneath him on the grass, coughing violently and feeling his whole body trembling in hot-cold shivers. His throat felt like it was on fire and swollen, but he could breathe again and the air felt painfully comforting stinging in his starving lungs.

“Don’t ever do anything like that again, Dean.” John whispered, palming Dean’s cheek and turning his face up to examine Dean’s features. Dean’s breathing still sounded harsh and raspy. “You always check in.”

“Yes sir.” Dean coughed, tears falling from his eyes against his control.

“Get up and run.” John said, hauling himself away from the wall and waiting for Dean to stumble to his feet.

Dean did as he was told. He was still coughing and his throat felt raw, but he stood up, leaning against the wall while he tried to pull himself together. John, beside him, shoved roughly at his shoulder.

“Get going.”

***  
Two weeks after the Winchesters had squealed out of his driveway and gone radio silent, Bobby was sitting on the front step playing with one of the satellite phones from the kitchen. He’d been looking for a certain reference book and had ventured into the spare bedroom. Instead of finding the book he was looking for, he’d found one of Sam’s novels abandoned on the nightstand; some fantasy story with a geeky looking kid on a broomstick.

He’d forgotten his search and had taken the book downstairs, stopping in the kitchen to grab the phone and settling outside on the step. He was considering calling Dean, but this seemed like a weak reason to get in contact. He didn’t think that Dean would pick up, even if he did dial. On the off chance Dean did answer, John wouldn’t go out of the way to get something one of the boys had left behind.

He couldn’t put it out of his mind though.

The boys had been on his mind since they’d left. There had been something about the way John had watched Dean as they’d gotten into the car that had been haunting Bobby over the last couple of weeks. John had always made Bobby a little uneasy, but he’d always chalked it up to John’s less than welcoming personality and obsessive nature. He was making the realization too late that he’d been wrong.

The reality of the situation was that there was nothing Bobby could do, he was powerless. Dean was too careful of a liar to let anything slip if Bobby ever did track him down and confront him. Even though Bobby had suspicions that there was more going on he didn’t have any proof. John Winchester was a bastard, and Dean was too under John’s control and Sam was too loyal to Dean. He hoped the boys were okay and looking out for each other. He set the satellite phone to the side and picked up Sam’s book, turning to the first page and reading the opening sentence.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much."

He didn’t know how long he sat there reading it and thinking about Sam and Dean. He could see why Sam liked the book and he could see why Dean teased Sam about it. He couldn’t help but smile and, pausing between chapters, he twisted the cap off his beer to settle back against the front step railing.

When Bobby climbed the stairs hours later, he set the book back on the nightstand where Sam had forgotten it.

If the boys ever came back, it would be there waiting.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got long (28pg, size 11. wtf). I don't know how to include warnings for this one without spoiling too much what happens. There are some potentially disturbing descriptions in here of someone dying and some heavy dissociation/panic/anxiety. What a journey. 
> 
> Summary that summarizes pretty much nothing because this became a monster chapter:
> 
> On all of those occasions Sam had exploded much like he had today, taking the vileness that had stored up inside him since he’d last let it out and unleashing all at once. The blast never lasted too long and it felt to Dean like it was the only time where he was the one putting Sam back together instead of the reverse.

Dean’s stomach had been cramping painfully since sometime last night when he’d realized he was out of days and out of hours to stall before Monday morning. It was coming, and with it so was a huge change. He rolled over on his cot in the darkness and watched Sam sleeping a few feet away on his hotel bed. He sat up so that he could see the alarm clock between the two beds. It was 4:28 am. He flopped back with a quiet sigh and stared at the ceiling.

Dad’s snores were loud and steady, the only sound other than the occasional sigh and roll over from Sam. Dean wished he could be in Sam’s bed tonight, wrapped up in the warmth and comfort that was his brother, but dad was there to frown get angry with them in the morning when he found them and Dean really was okay. He could get through this on his own. He was just a little shaky was all. 

He closed his eyes. If his eyes were closed, he was at least resting, right? It was boring though, keeping his eyes closed when there was stuff to look at in the hotel; like the ceiling, or the trash can, or the carpet, or Sam’s stuff on the table. None of it was interesting, but it was better than the black emptiness that was the back of his eyelids and the worry in his gut when he thought of morning and making it to school without changing his mind. 

It was a welcome intrusion when the alarm rang and he and Sam had to get ready to go. He’d had plenty of tired mornings, one more on the pile wasn’t something to worry about. He ducked around Sam on his way to the bathroom and took a longer shower than was strictly necessary. He wanted to minimize the amount of time he had to spend sitting across from dad with dad’s eyes boring into him and Dean’s resolve to go through with his plan shaking. When he came back dressed, all he had time for was a quick piece of toast followed by half a swallow of Sam’s glass of milk and they were out the door. 

Even though he’d escaped the claustrophobia of lying awake on the cot, he was feeling the weight of each step. He tried to count off the reasons this was going to be okay in his head; at the very least he wouldn’t even have to pretend to be paying attention today through class if things went as planned. 

Sam talked to him on the way to school, but Dean wasn’t really sure what about. He nodded and shook his head in all the right places, and said ‘yeah?’ when Sam paused every now and again, but he didn’t remember the details afterwards. He’d been too focused on not losing his nerve, on putting one foot in front of the other and resisting the urge to take off and run in any direction that didn’t lead to the hotel or to school. It was almost a relief to get to school and not have to be walking there anymore, but now he had a new problem. It was Monday morning, and there were no seconds left to tick off and exist through before first bell. 

In the lobby, Dean and Sam usually walked in opposite directions towards their homerooms. This morning, Dean waited until Sam was out of sight and then doubled back across the lobby towards the guidance counselor's office. He’d scheduled this appointment Friday, giving him a chance to prepare what he was going to say and to get cold feet if he was going to get cold feet. His feet were frozen solid, but he was going through with this. It had to happen. It was time. He’d felt too sick and shaky all weekend to give up just as he was about to cross the threshold. 

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door of the guidance counselor's office before hearing a quiet ‘come in’ from behind the door and turning the knob. He took a steadying breath. He’d spent so long lying to school principals, to teachers, to Sam, to Bobby when he’d been in their lives, to coaches, to custodians, to secretaries, to librarians, to lunch ladies, to guidance counselors...and he was tired of having to keep up the appearances. He was tired of having to make excuses and come up with elaborate cover stories. It was almost over. He just had to turn the knob and walk in and say what he’d practiced. He swallowed the lump in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut. There was no going back if he did this. This was a choice he couldn’t erase or take back. 

He could feel his heart beating off rhythm in his chest and realized for the millionth time in his life that he was holding his breath. He had to stay calm. He was doing this for Sam. He forced a deep breath into his lungs, gripped the handle more firmly, and let himself into the councilor's office. 

It was a small room, comfortable enough and welcoming despite the size. There was a sand garden on the desk, a large filing cabinet in the corner that held a large assortment of pamphlets about higher education, two chairs positioned in front of the desk, and a small bowl of candies on a stand by the door. Behind the desk, the guidance counselor was waiting for him to take a seat. 

“Good morning, Dean.” Mrs. Henshaw said. She had answered Dean’s request for a meeting with a promptness that had both impressed him and made him panic a little. He’d expected to buy time by being on a waiting list and he’d even considered the probability that he wouldn’t get an appointment before they jumped town, but she’d booked him in as soon as possible in her calendar; the next school day. 

“Good morning.” He said, smiling and trying to look as put together as he could while being hyper-aware of the tired bruises under his eyes. 

“How can I help you?” She asked, gesturing to the chair in front of her and pulling a folder towards herself. He assumed it was his file, the one that followed him and had all his grades and records of every transfer between schools he’d ever made. He eyed it for a moment and considered the way he was about to drop a bomb neatly on top of any relevance that the file had over his life. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but he was here and -now- was happening again like it always did before he was ready for it. He didn’t have time left to worry about it. 

It was D-day, and Dean had his orders.

“I’m looking to de-register from my courses.” Dean said, trying to sound confident and sure, but hearing his own voice waver as he spoke. He’d rehearsed this in his head over and over again. He had to say it now as convincingly as he’d told the bathroom mirror after showering on Saturday morning, and again after throwing up with nerves sometime after lunch Saturday afternoon, and Saturday night when he’d run his hands anxiously through his hair waiting for dinner to beep in the microwave, or Sunday morning when he woken up sweating from some dream he couldn’t really remember, or Sunday night around seven when he realized that there were less than fourteen hours until go time... “I want to stop attending school. I want to work.”

His delivery wasn’t perfect, but he’d gotten his point across. He wasn’t really going into the workforce, but there was no way for her to prove that. It was close enough to the truth anyway. He was about to walk away from civilian life completely and start doing the only job he saw himself ever having. It was a few months earlier than he’d anticipated, but it had to be done now. He could no longer afford to wait for graduation.

About two weeks ago, John had been toying with the notion of pulling Sam from classes more often to help hunt, like he did with Dean. John already pulled Sam sporadically, but he’d been talking about Sam missing a significant amount of time. He’d said the three of them would be faster and more efficient and that they’d be able to take almost double the amount of cases that John normally managed in a year just with Dean’s help. 

Dean hadn’t even let dad finish before he’d been shaking his head. Sammy had a perfect GPA and he took it pretty seriously. Sam cared about school and more importantly he liked school. Dean had offered a compromise that he would take more time away from school instead. Seeing John’s face darken in response, Dean had backpedaled and said that he’d drop out if he had to, but he’d insisted firmly that Sam wasn’t going to be missing more time. John needed someone to take on more responsibility and, for Dean, there had been an obvious choice. John had shrugged and told him to either hurry up and drop out, or to tell Sam not to bother getting his binders and work ready when they hit their next town.

“Are you sure, Dean? That’s a huge decision.” She said, frowning and studying him closely. 

“I’m sure. My grades aren’t very good and I don’t have a lot of time left to make them better anyway.” Dean nodded down at his transcript on her desk to draw her attention to it. She looked down at his transcript, with tight lips. He was right. Objectively speaking, his grades were awful. 

The fact that Dean was even holding a passing grade with all the time he missed already from hunting with John was almost a miracle. Dean had worked hard to do it, putting real effort into school for the first time since he’d realized in seventh grade that he could get by on a fifty-five without being harassed about it. Missing so much time had meant that his fifty-five benchmark had been difficult to reach, but he’d done it. Dean was only four months short of graduating. 

“Have you considered a tutor or a private teacher to help boost your grades?” She asked. 

“No. I’d need a lot of tutoring. My attendance and enrollment has been dicey and I’ve missed a lot.” Dean explained, folding his hands and trying to keep an even and measured tone. He had to sound like an adult if she was going to take him seriously. “Money is a tight resource for my family and I can’t afford the extra cost. I’m not looking at college or anything like that after graduating. I want to start making money.” 

“You’ve thought about this, huh?” She said, leaning back and crossing her arms. 

“All weekend.” He nodded, with no need for a lie or embellishment this time when he spoke. “I’m sure this is what I want to do. I’ve already talked to my dad.” 

“I’ll still need parental permission in order to de-register you, since you’re still under the age of 21.” She said, nodding at what he’d said. 

“My dad sent this.” He said as he pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. It contained a letter John had written giving permission for Dean to leave school as well as a contact number for if there were any questions. She skimmed it quickly, laying the letter carefully on her desk beside the phone before getting up. She stepped over to the filing cabinet, going through the pamphlets there quickly before pulling one from the stack and settling back across from him again. 

“Have you ever heard of the GED, Dean?”

“No?”

***

Dean was still erasing the remnants of dad and Sam’s fight, and Sam was still locked in the bathroom where dad had finally contained him with a chair jammed under the handle, and dad was somewhere in the car; gone and probably not back until morning.

Dean threw the last pieces of a broken picture frame and a blood soaked photograph from off the wall into the trash bin. He didn’t know who had gotten cut on the jagged glass, dad or Sam. Sam had smashed it over John’s shoulder while he’d single-handedly destroyed the hotel room, so really either was possible. Dean made one last pass with the vacuum he’d found in the closet to make sure that all the little shards were accounted for. 

He righted the armchair that dad and Sam had knocked over and then searched for the other kitchen chair that went with the small table in the kitchenette, the chair not holding Sam captive in the bathroom. He found it between the wall and the far bed, but it had a splintered off leg. He put it out of the way beside the wall, its broken leg lying uselessly beside it. Some random credit card in dad’s wallet was going to collect a ton of charges whenever they checked out, but by the time the credit card was cancelled they’d be long gone. There was no saving the damage deposit on this one. 

In his less than ten minute whirlwind, Sam had stripped both beds of the pillows and blankets, upended two of the four nightstands, ripped the photos and decorations from the wall, and smashed a chair, all while evading dad; who had been trying to lock his arms around Sam to keep him from doing more. Dean sighed heavily and gave up when he noticed one of the overhead lampshades was askew and dented. He was done. Now that the glass was off the floor, the rest could wait.

Dean checked the small mirror beside the door, noting his cheek starting to swell where he’d been hit. He’d gotten in between Sam and John, knowing it was a mistake, but needing to step into the line of fire between them. He was glad to find that his lip had stopped bleeding, but his jaw was very tender.

At first, Sam had just been yelling at dad, and dad had dealt with it by ignoring him. Dean had known then things would escallate. One thing Sam couldn’t handle was being ignored. It filled Sam with hot rage every single time. Dad had ignored him until Sam had finally bubbled over and started throwing things. Dad’s reaction had been to try to pin Sam down. Dean’s had been to duck quickly out of the way. 

Unfortunately for dad, Sam was fast and very capable. Every time John and Sam got into an argument that ended this way, Dean thought about how John had really shot himself in the foot with all those hours he’d ordered Dean to spend making sure that Sam was lethal. Sam was also still growing and he’d sprung up almost another foot over the last month. Growing in such quick spurts meant Sam was starving for as much food as Dean could manage to scrounge together and a little faint on occasion when he stood up too fast or didn’t eat on time, but it also gave him more weight and a better reach to work with in close combat.

When Dean had finally seen dad’s temper snap and things seemed like they were about to turn really physical, Dean’s instincts for self-preservation had fallen away. He’d shot in between the two of them to break them apart, weary of bunched fists and too aware of the intent to do real harm present in both the angry curl of John’s lips and the defiant glare in Sam’s eyes. 

It had happened lighting fast, before either one of them had even registered Dean had gotten in the way. 

Things had gone very quiet in the hotel room as Dean’s head had snapped to the side with the blow of an unidentified fist. Dad and Sam were both looking for blood. They’d both lunged forward to hit each other and with the confusion of the struggle and speed of the crack to his jaw, Dean wasn’t sure who had connected with his face first. He could tell from their stunned faces they didn’t know either; Dad’s had been an expression of surprise, Sam’s one of absolute horror. The resulting silence had lasted almost forty-seven seconds. Dean had counted it out in his head. 

Abruptly, John had grabbed the keys from the floor where they’d been flung from an overturned nightstand. Sam, realizing John was taking the opportunity to retreat, had thudded against Dean’s back desperate to get past while Dean stayed purposely in his way. Sam had been shouting something about Dean taking dad’s side, but Dean’s ears had been ringing too loudly from the force of whoever’s punch had nailed him to catch the details of the accusations. John had jammed his keys into his pocket, shouldered past Dean, grabbed Sam around the waist- and that had been the end of it. Sam had kicked and slammed against the closed bathroom door once John had trapped him inside, but he’d given up quickly. It was done. 

Once John had Sam contained, John had crossed the room again and stood in front of Dean for a moment. He’d taken Dean’s jaw in his hand and tipped his chin, assessing the damage with a shake of his head. Finding nothing that looked worse than a swollen lip and probably a headache, John had let go and turned away towards the door. 

The only thing John had said on his way out was a quick order for Dean to clean up and for Dean to be ready to head upstate with him in the morning. He had a case and Dean was coming with him. 

Dean knew this destruction was his fault, even if it wasn’t his mess. He’d made the choices that had pushed Sam there. He’d gone about things the wrong way and blindsiding Sam had made this confrontation worse. This was Dean’s fault for not being more open, sure, but he didn’t think he could have gone through with it if Sam had tried to stop him. He’d had to go through with this plan. 

It was that stupid GED pamphlet in his back pocket that had caused this whole explosive mess. Dean had intended to throw it away, but for some reason he’d held onto it after skimming the information, thinking half-heartedly that maybe he’d bother to do it someday. Peeking out innocently from the back pocket of his jeans that he’d lazily thrown over the back of a chair, the pamphlet was the spark that had set Sam ablaze. 

Sam had started firing off questions before Dean had been prepared to explain. Sam had gotten the truth from him by reading his face and pushing until Dean couldn’t deny what Sam was saying. And then Sam had asked him if dad had made him do it. And before Dean had had a chance to deny it, even though he knew Sam already knew the answer, John had pulled up in the Impala back early from town and the screaming match had started. 

Dean turned to the bathroom door. 

Inside, Sam was sitting on the floor against the bathtub. His arms were resting on his bent knees and his head was bowed. He was still livid, but he wasn’t swearing anymore or bothering to try the door. Sam knew that by now dad was long gone anyway. It was just Dean out there and he didn’t want to take this out on Dean any more than he already had. This wasn’t really Dean’s fault, even if Dean lied for dad like he always did and said he’d chosen it. 

Sam’s left hand was stinging painfully across the palm, but he hadn’t looked at it. He ignored the few drops of blood dripping from the tips of his fingers onto the tile floor in favor of the knuckles on his right hand. They were skun open and bleeding too, cut open from impacting with something sharp. He was so frustrated he wanted to cry. He was filled with regret, even though he was still seething. 

Outside, Dean tried to pull the chair out from under the door handle, but dad had wedged it too tightly in place for him to be able to. Sam had gone quiet a long time ago and Dean didn’t think Sam would wind up again now that dad was gone. He stood back and gave a steady kick to the chair, dislodging it with a thump. 

The chair fell away leaving nasty gouges on the door that Dean knew he wasn’t going to be able to fix before they left. He sighed and put them out of mind; there was nothing he could do about it. He knocked once, and then pushed the door open. 

Sam didn’t move or look up at him when he pulled the door closed behind himself. Dean sat down on the edge of the tub beside Sam and ran a slow, gentle hand through Sam’s sweaty hair. Sam leaned his head against Dean’s thigh for a few seconds, angry and guilty, but willing to accept the affection. 

“Hey.” Dean said. 

“I hit you.” Sam sighed, pulling away. 

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Dean shrugged, letting his thumb run soothing circles over the nape of Sam’s neck. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You getting hurt matters.” Sam said, shooting a challenging glare Dean’s way as though daring him to argue. 

“Okay, Sam.” Dean soothed, curling his palm around the curve of Sam’s jaw, just below his ear. “Okay, but I’m okay.” 

“You don’t -want- to drop out.” 

“I don’t even go half the time anyway.” Dean rolled his eyes tiredly. He’d already fought this battle inside himself about school, and it was over. There was nothing they do could now. He’d already made the agreement and dropped his classes. “I’m barely passing.” 

“You would if you went.” Sam said stubbornly. “You’re not stupid, even though you pretend to be. We could catch you up.” 

“It’s not important to me.” Dean shrugged honestly. He’d always intended to finish school, Sam wasn’t entirely wrong. He wanted to graduate, but he’d be lying if he said school had ever been one of his main priorities. He wasn’t sure what a transcript with his grades would be worth even if he did bother to get the diploma. “Dad needs help hunting and it makes sense.” 

“Hunting. Yeah.” Sam nodded sarcastically. “Yeah. That makes sense… He should want you to graduate, Dean. That would make sense.” 

Dean shrugged again and Sam huffed a frustrated sigh, but gave up on protesting any further. Sam would just piss Dean off and make him shy away if he kept it up. After a few minutes of mutual quiet Sam turned back to the guilt clawing at him from inside his stomach.

“It was me. For sure.” 

Dean quirked an eyebrow and Sam pulled himself up onto his knees in front of Dean, holding out the back of his right hand for Dean to inspect. Dean took Sam’s hand carefully in his own and studied the torn skin across Sam’s knuckles. Dean touched his tongue to his own canine, the tooth responsible for the mess skittered across the back of Sam’s hand. Sam was looking up at him, but he wasn’t exactly meeting Dean’s eyes. Sam was looking at the corner of Dean’s mouth where his lip had split and bled on impact. Dean had to fight himself not to flick his tongue over it self-consciously.

“I got you good.” Dean smiled gently, nodding down to Sam’s hand. Sam let out a couple shaky laughs. Sam didn’t cry a lot. He never really had even as a baby, but his eyes were wet and there were tears on his cheeks. The rare times Sam actually fell apart crying were almost always after he’d had a fight with dad or Dean. 

Whether it was not wanting to go to bed before Dean when he’d been tiny and in footie pajamas... Or getting mad at dad as a sassy four year old when they weren’t allowed to go out to play… Or acting out because John had ripped them from another school when Sam had been in kindergarten and hadn’t been able to handle the constant flux of new people…Or when Sam had been told he was going to be left behind the first time when Dean had gone on a hunt with dad…

On all of those occasions Sam had exploded much like he had today, taking the vileness that had stored up inside him since he’d last let it out and unleashing all at once. The blast never lasted too long and it felt to Dean like it was the only time where he was the one putting Sam back together instead of the reverse. 

Dean slipped down off the side of the bathtub so that he was sitting in front of Sam with his legs spread apart. He pulled Sam close, letting Sam rest against his chest and wrapping his arms securely around Sam’s back. They sat like that for a while, Sam keeping his face hidden in Dean’s t-shirt trying hard to get his tears to stop. They made him feel stupid and young, but Dean had been watching him cry since he’d been a baby and Dean cried in front of him sometimes, so he tried not to let it bother him. 

“He makes me so angry.” Sam whispered, when most of the rage inside of himself had dissipated, having worked itself out as he’d let Dean hold him on the floor. 

“I know.” 

“Why doesn’t he make you angry?” 

“I don’t know, Sammy.” Dean said honestly. 

“He should.” 

“Maybe.” Dean shrugged. Dad made him feel a lot of things; fear, anxiety, sadness, insecurity, pain, but very rarely true and lasting anger. 

Dean knew in his head that he had the right to be angry, he just couldn’t sustain it very long. He’d expect someone else who had been through half of what he and Sam had been through to be angry, he’d consider it natural. Dean wasn’t angry like that though. He got mad sometimes, frustrated and beyond bitter, but it always fizzled out for some reason when it came to John. Everything was complicated when it came to John.

As much as John had hurt him, John was still his dad. Dean’s earliest memories were of dad teaching him to walk, playing with him and mom in the backyard, and sitting in dad’s lap holding Sammy. Things were irreparably screwed up between them now and had been for longer than Dean could remember, but all of what he remembered from before mom died had still happened. It still felt real to him.

There were still times when dad made him feel good, proud of himself or strong when he’d done something well on a hunt. There were times when dad congratulated him, trusted him, relied on him, and outright praised him. Dad impressed Dean as a hunter and in about as many ways as he didn’t want to be like dad, he did want to be like dad. Dad was strong, and capable, and certain, he never second guessed himself and he and one of the best hunters Dean knew. 

Then there were times when Dean wished to never see his father again. A part of him wished that John would die and burn in hell for everything he’d put them through after the fire. Even so, there was a large part of Dean that believed he deserved all of those feelings, the positive and the negative ones. 

“Not maybe.” Sam muttered. He pulled away then, sitting back and rubbing his eyes, realizing he’d peppered Dean’s clothes with the blood he’d forgotten seeping from his left hand. “Shit.”

“Let me see that.” Dean said, reaching out. He turned Sam’s palm over and inspected the cut, solving the mystery of who had gotten blood on the gagged edge of the picture frame. “Get cleaned up and I’ll warp it.” 

“It’s fine.” Sam said, shaking his head. “It’s not even bad.”

“It’s not deep.” Dean agreed. “Could have glass in it. Better to take a look.”

Sam didn’t argue any further and pushed himself reluctantly from the floor and to his feet to turn on the tap. Dean ducked around him into the room and returned with a first aid kit just as Sam was using a towel to pat his hands dry, his teeth ground together against the sting the soap had left in his cuts. He leaned against the sink, his head tilted to the side as not to block Dean’s light as he picked a few small shards of glass from Sam’s hand and bandaged it when he was sure it was clean. 

When he was done, Dean let their hands drop between them and met Sam’s gaze. His eyes were still red, but he looked more tired than anything now. Dean sighed guiltily. He hadn’t meant to put Sam through this. He didn’t let go of Sam’s hand, instead his fingers curled together with Sam’s and he let the other hand carefully palm Sam’s cheek again. Sam licked his lips, but didn’t move, worried that if he did it would make Dean pull away. 

“Sorry, Sammy.” Dean said quietly. Dean leaned his forehead against Sam’s and closed his eyes, breathing shakily and swallowing twice before he could find his voice again.“Should have told you...just couldn’t.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Sam murmured back, letting go of Dean’s hand and putting his hands to rest gingerly on Dean’s hips, relatively certain Dean wasn’t going to shove away. It was always like that, no matter what was going on with his older brother. Dean could never tell him; whether because he’d been told not to, or because he didn’t know how, or because he was too ashamed. Somehow Sam still understood the gaps and silences Dean let hang between them. “It’s okay. Not your fault.” 

He felt Dean’s small humorless laugh in response puff against his lips and his mouth went dry. Dean had never kissed him before, but Sam wanted Dean to, but he didn’t think Dean would, but Dean was so close already, but Sam was pretty sure that was one of the things that was off limits. He was so close to Dean that he could see the tiny freckles on Dean’s cheeks. He could see the tiny shadows Dean’s eyelashes left on the delicate skin of his eyelids. He could taste Dean’s breath as it passed over Sam’s tongue on its way to his lungs. 

Dean pulled back watching Sam’s eyes carefully and pressed his lips timidly to the corner of Sam’s jaw, just below his ear. He’d seen Dean do that to girls before, but he’d never expected it to make him feel like this, electric and hungry. Sam let his eyes slip closed and he gripped Dean’s shoulder, wrapping his other arm around Dean’s back and pulling them closer together. Dean could feel Sam swallow beneath his mouth. Sam was starting to get hard and he was silently pleading in his head that Dean wasn’t going to stumble backwards and trip his way out of the room to get away. He let out a relieved breath when Dean’s fingers tightened on him in response.

Dean knew he should let go. They didn’t even have a reason to be acting like this or clinging to each other. Neither of them were hurt, but Dean didn’t want to let go. He felt needy, and so did Sam. He wanted Sam to feel better, he knew Sam wanted this, and he knew this wasn’t how he was supposed to make Sam feel better. It wasn’t just about making Sam feel better. Dean was selfish too. When he did this he did it because he wanted to, because he’d gone too long without hearing the sounds and watching the faces Sam made when he got off. He couldn’t lie to himself, he wanted Sam to touch him back too, but he never let it happen. 

Sam stepped backwards against the sink and slid up onto the counter, pulling Dean with him to step in between Sam’s legs once he was on the ledge. He felt Dean’s arms circle around him, slipping underneath his t-shirt to run along the skin of his lower back. He wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist, and leaned back, pulling his shirt quickly off over his head and dropping it to the floor behind Dean before reaching for Dean’s sleeve in question. Dean’s upper body was a sometimes boundary; sometimes Dean let him, sometimes no.

“No, Sam.” Dean murmured tightly, smoothing a hand over Sam’s arm and listening to his harsh breaths. He was shaking his head and holding Sam still, but not pulling away. “Come on… I… carried away… let’s just...”

He pulled his hips back from Sam’s and wrapped a hand carefully around the back of Sam’s neck. He hid his face in Sam’s hair and took refuge in the quiet rebellion that dad had stopped trying to force Dean to quiet with a pair of scissors. He looped his arms around Sam’s back and took a deep breath. He was hard, and Sam was hard, and dad was gone and they had all night. Dean had to pull away before he did something he couldn’t take back. 

“Dean-” Sam said, trying to drag Dean out of his head before he put a stop to whatever good place this had been heading, but he was already too late. Dean was starting to retreat back into himself the way he did when he wasn’t sure, but Sam was so fucking sure. They both wanted it, he could feel that Dean wanted it. Sam found it incredibly frustrating that Dean wouldn’t just let them both have it. “Dean, it’s alright-”

“Sam, let me go.” Dean said, pulling back and running a hand gently across Sam’s collar bone, but pressing against Sam’s chest to push him back with the other. “Let me step back, Sam.”

Sam swallowed, but unwrapped his legs from around Dean’s waist and steadied himself on the counter as Dean inched back from him. He didn’t want to let Dean go, but Dean’s voice had gotten that higher pitched edge that preceded him freaking out in some way if left ignored. To Sam’s relief, Dean didn’t go far. Dean just needed room to breathe and it was easier to think when he wasn’t jammed against Sam and tempted enough to consider doing what they both wanted to do. They were a mistake waiting to happen. 

“My bed tonight.” Sam said quickly before Dean could say anything.

“Sam-” Dean, starting to shake his head.

“We don’t have to do anything.” Sam said quickly, trying not to sound like he was whining or begging, but knowing he probably did. “You’re going with him in the morning right? So just stay with me tonight. We’ll just watch a movie and lay down.”

Dean bit his lip. Sam’s eyes seemed genuine and as much as he and Sam tricked and pranked each other when given the chance, Sam had never tried to trick him about something serious. With this, Sam never pushed him further than he was comfortable even if what Dean would agree to do on any given occasion was more unpredictable than Sam liked. Dean thought about the comfort and relief of laying down with Sam and about the turbulent day he, and Sam too really, had just lived through. 

Monday had been hell, but it was mostly over now and in a few hours it would be time to sleep. Monday had changed everything the way he’d known it would and he wasn’t sure he really liked the changes, but at least it wasn’t still sitting in front of him waiting to happen. Maybe the last few hours of Monday didn’t have to be a complete waste. He could lay down with Sam. Dad was gone, definitely not coming back. Maybe he’d end up getting Sam off, he had no idea. 

“Okay.” Dean agreed, stepping back another foot to let Sam drop down off the sink and onto his feet. When Sam reached out for his hand, he didn’t hesitate.

***

They’d been tracking this thing for two days and it had left behind a body count that had alerted the real FBI. It had changed skins to blend in, but John and Dean had followed and calculated each of the jumps and they had it cornered now. John had already clipped it twice with silver blades and the thing had slowed way down, unable to use its superhuman speed while injured, and unable to re-generate because of the silver. It was Dean who had caught up to where the shifter had collapsed and Dean was the one holding his gun, loaded with the silver bullets, aimed at the shifter’s head. The shifter had banked on him being faster and catching up first, and had chosen a face based on a gamble over Dean's age and possible inexperience.

The shifter looked like a kid, probably ten or eleven, cowering in front of him and Dean’s finger was frozen on the trigger even though he knew the boy that the shifter had morphed into was either already dead or safe somewhere else. He knew, but Dean still couldn’t shoot it. He’d never hesitated on a hunt before and he wasn't sure what was wrong this time. He could hear John not far behind him and Dean was glad. Dad would be able to do it. 

The door opened and John joined him in the old storage room with rusty shelves and abandoned file boxes. They were in a warehouse, an abandoned one where it seemed like the shifter had set up a sort of residence. It was fast, and strong, and Dean blamed the element of surprise and the shifter’s injuries for his catching up with it at all. 

“Shoot it, Dean.” John said, lowering his gun slightly, but keeping it trained on the creature in front of Dean. It was injured, but it was still dangerous. He stepped to the side, best to keep it distracted between two targets. 

“Dad.” Dean said, shaking his head. “I can't.”

John frowned. It was responsible for so much damage, so many innocent victims. It looked innocent right now, but Dean had to learn somehow that not all monsters looked like monsters. This was just another thing they had to put down, and apparently Dean still needed to learn to shut down or lock away whatever he had to in order to get the job done. 

“No.” John replied. “You have a clean shot. Shoot it.” 

Dean licked his lips and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing up at John. John seemed relaxed. The shifter was already pretty badly hurt from a slice with a silver blade. There were two guns trained on it loaded with silver bullets. If it tried to escape, John would take it down, but he wasn’t going to end it for Dean the easy way. 

“I can’t…” Dean said, his shoulders slumping and his eyes locked on the shifter. He knew John was right. He should take the shot, but the shifter had chosen well by accident and the kid sitting in front of Dean reminded him of Sam and as much as he wanted to pull the trigger he couldn’t. 

“Now.” John insisted. “One of those things could turn into you, or me, or Sam at any time. Shoot, Dean.” 

“Dad, it’s a kid-”

“And yesterday it was a banker.” John growled. “It’s not a kid, Dean. Aim and fire.”

Dean did as he was told. He lined up the gun, licking his lips nervously, and aimed for the shifter’s head. 

“Please don’t.” The shifter whispered, mimicking the voice of the boy it was playing. 

Dean closed his eyes and counted to three in his head. He’d do it on three. He didn’t have a choice. It was just a shifter. Even though John was making him do this, he wasn’t on his own. Dad was right there and this time dad was right. It wasn’t a kid, it just looked like one. 

One. Not yet. It’s okay. 

Two. Not yet. Just breathe. 

Three. Now was happening. 

Now. 

Something inside him snapped loose and made him feel very far away when the gun recoiled in his hand. He heard the body in front of him hit the floor. He heard John moving forward to check for sure that the thing was dead, but he didn’t open his eyes. 

“Dean, salt and burn. Let’s go.” John said crisply as he dropped the supplies they need to the ground from the bag he’d had strapped to his back. Dean swallowed hard, and opened his eyes .

He helped John pour the salt, and dump the accelerant, and then stood back to watch the fire purge clean another hunt. He was very cold inside and the heat of the flames against his skin felt fake. Dad’s hand was on his back then, urging him forward and pushing him gently towards the door. He stumbled the few steps towards the outside, his feet were uncoordinated and he couldn’t concentrate on what was in front of him. When he fell into the Impala, he was glad for the familiar surroundings. 

John started the Impala after loading away their gear and slamming the trunk closed. He pulled onto the main road and took a glance at Dean. Dean was pale and quiet beside him. He frowned at the odd behaviour. Dean didn’t normally get bothered by hunts, the opposite usually. He’d killed his fair share of human-looking monsters, but there had been something about this kill that had bothered Dean. 

John had seen that look on the faces a lot of experienced soldiers back when he’d been overseas. Sometimes a kill sent people into shock. It made people do funny things like laugh when they were scared or cry when they didn’t feel anything at all. Dean was splattered with specks of red and he didn’t answer when John tried to get his attention. Dean had gone blank, further than he usually did. John started looking for a hotel instead of pulling up onto the highway. 

Somewhere deep down where Dean still cared about things he was passively confused. Normally after a hunt, he felt good. Hunting was one of the things that Dean did consistently that gained approval from John and at which he excelled. He usually felt a rush of pride and accomplishment after finishing a hunt. This time didn’t feel like that. He felt distant from himself like he did sometimes after a panic attack or after coming back from dad in the middle of the night. He was dissociating, even though he firmly believed there was no reason to be having that kind of response. He knew that the shifter had been playing him and that he’d done the right thing by shooting it, but he was having a hard time reconciling it all. 

John parked in a hotel not far from where they’d done the salt and burn which surprised Dean dimly, closer to the surface where the world was happening outside himself. They wouldn’t stay longer than a night, dad never liked to linger in a town where he’d just worked a case. It was smart really, sometimes normal people found evidence of a hunt and didn’t know what to make out from the clues left behind. It was better to be out off the area. 

Dean’s door was open. He didn’t remember dad walking around the Impala, but John was tugging him to his feet and steering him into one of the rooms at the end of the parking lot. Dean didn’t remember John going to get a room. It seemed like he blinked and they were inside, dad’s bag on one bed, Dean’s on the other. Dean was standing by the door and John was going through Dean’s bag, but he didn’t remember coming inside. He blinked hard twice, trying to make the world focus a little more clearly. He had to start paying attention. 

Come on, Dean. Pay attention. 

He watched John cross the room towards him holding a bottle of shampoo and a change of clothes for Dean. Dean reached out to take it from him, but John curled a hand around his arm instead and guided him towards the bathroom. 

“Dean, look at me.” John said. John was kneeling in front of him holding a washcloth. When had he sat down? Dean was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. He blinked in confusion. “Dean.” 

“Where are we?” Dean swallowed. 

“Hotel. For the night. You need to get cleaned up.” John said, getting to his feet and putting the cloth, which Dean was now realizing already had little red splotches stained into it, into the sink. Dean’s face felt like it was already wet and he eyed the washcloth uneasily. He didn’t remember that either even though it had just happened. “Shower. Five minutes. Pay attention.” 

Dean nodded numbly and John closed the door behind himself. Dean got up, a little unsteady and stripped his clothes off. He rarely dissociated this badly, and almost always was able to keep himself from detaching too far to come back on his own. He used it on purpose as a coping mechanism sometimes, but this wasn’t on purpose. He was missing large a amount of the time he’d existed between now and when he’d shot the shifter. Most of it had been travel and while he hadn’t missed anything of importance, it was weird knowing he’d been awake and possibly responding to John and having no mental record to confirm one way or the other. 

He looked around for something to hold his attention while he showered and decided on the ceramic tiling on the wall. He could count the squares and keep his brain busy and alert. There were hundreds, so it wasn’t like he was going to run out before time was up. He got into the shower and clicked open the shampoo John had left there for him. He started counting the top row of tiles above his head. He could focus on that. Definitely. Five minutes was a long time, but he could do that. 

It was hard not to let his mind wander, not to zone out and stand there under the water, but he only had five minutes before John was coming back and he wanted to be dressed if he could be. John didn’t seem particularly interested in him tonight, hunting him or otherwise. For one thing, John was usually very drunk when he wanted Dean, not all the time but usually, and John was stone sober. Dad also hadn’t seemed pumped full of adrenaline like he got sometimes or like he’d been itching for movement. 

Dean was dimly hopeful, even though experience had taught him hope was generally a mistake. He didn’t know know for sure about dad and settling into the idea that he could relax soon was a dangerous exercise if he wanted to avoid disappointment. He’d missed so much of the car ride, when he usually spent time watching John for the signs that he was about to be hunted or hurt, that he couldn’t say for sure what was waiting on the other side of the bathroom door. 

He fumbled with the tap and stepped out onto the floor, wrapping a towel around his waist and kicking his dirty clothes aside underneath the sink. He didn't want to look at them. Hed deal with them later. He dressed quickly and pushed the door open before John had even come knocking. 

“Better?” John asked, looking up from his journal where he was cataloguing the hunt and adding his notes. Dean nodded and gave an unconvincing half-smile. The warm water and having the grime of the hunt cleaned off his skin was helping, but he still felt foggy. He was glad to find John sitting at the table and not pacing the room waiting for him. From the look of it Dean had been right. Dad didn’t seem like he was in any kind of mood to hunt or hurt him tonight.

Sometimes when they went off on their own without Sam, dad would start hunting him almost as soon as the real hunt was over. With no Sam, John didn’t feel like there were appearances to maintain and so he didn’t stick to a schedule. Dean hated the mornings when six am wasn’t a guaranteed last call. He didn’t expect that tonight from the way Dad was acting. As far as cases went it hadn’t been all that exciting or challenging, just a lot of leg work and an unfortunate amount of victims. It hadn’t gotten John’s blood pumping the way big hunts did and that was just as well for Dean.

“Good.” John said, looking back down at his journal and finishing the last few sentences he was writing before looking up at Dean again. “I’m going out. Coming or staying?” 

John had gotten him a fake ID not too long ago. Dean had used it once to get into a bar with John in order to ask some questions of some younger locals. John had gotten him a beer afterwards. It had been a rare good night and an experience he wouldn’t mind repeating sometime, but even so, he shook his head. 

“Staying.” Dean replied. Now that he didn’t have the wall tiles to help him, it was harder to stay focused on what was in front of him, but not impossible anymore like it had been before the shower. He didn’t want to go out like this, even if the bar promised liquor and sex. What he really wanted was Sam. That was impossible, so Dean wanted to check out the only other way that he could, sleep. He thought it might help. 

When John left him alone in the hotel room, he turned off the lights and flipped the covers down on the bed furthest from the door. He closed his eyes, spread out under the covers and tried to think of something peaceful. He settled on taking the Impala apart in his mind, cleaning the parts, and putting her back together. There were a lot of steps to cycle though, he knew the process intimately, and he didn’t have to concentrate on it very hard. 

They were pleasant enough thoughts, even if they didn’t really make him feel any more grounded.

*** 

Sam was bleeding. A lot. Dean was keeping pressure on the wound with his own shirt, but it wasn’t helping to stop the rush of red across his fingers. Sam was still dying. Dean didn’t know how to make the bleeding stop. There was so much blood. Everything was red. It was on his hands, it was on his clothes, it was covering Dean’s bare chest and stomach, it was on Sam’s face from where Dean had tried frantically to shake him back awake- it was everywhere, and everything Dean touched seemed to be slick with it. He was applying pressure, but it didn’t matter because Sam had gone limp, and his breathing was rattling, and Sam’s eyes had unfocused and slipped closed, and he wasn’t responding at all to Dean anymore- 

Sam was dying in his lap and he didn’t have a way to stop it.

Dean didn’t have a phone to call for help. Dean didn’t know where dad was, but he wished dad would come back and make this better because Dean was failing again. Dean was killing Sam, and he couldn’t stop it and dad wasn’t there to stop him. John had been there moments before. He’d given the order, but now he was gone, taken off somewhere without giving Dean orders or instructions about what to do next. He’d told Dean to shoot - he’d told Dean to - and then he’d left. He’d told Dean to do it and then Dean had shot Sam. Dean’s gun was on the ground beside him, his bloody fingerprints visible stamped accusingly across the weapon. It wasn’t supposed to be Sam, but it had been Sam. Dad was wrong. It was Sam, and now Sam was dying and dad was gone. 

Sam’s breath gurgled to a halt and his body went completely lax. 

“No. No. No no no no no no no.” Dean begged frantically, first digging his fingers into Sam’s wrist, then into the side of his neck. “Sam. Sammy, come on. No. Dad’s gonna come back. We’re gonna...Sam...no.”

Dean couldn’t find a pulse. A sob ripped from his throat and the shirt dropped from his hands. Sam was going cold in Dean’s arms covered in his own blood. Dean was too good of a shot, and Sam had lost too much blood, and his breath had stopped, and so had his heart, and Dean had no idea when or if John would circle back for them. Dean’s eyes lingered on the blood spatter on the wall and floor, where his round had shot through Sammy and caused the chaos littered across the warehouse floor. 

Now Sam was dead. John was gone. Dean felt dead. Dean wanted to die. 

He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, leaving trails of red behind on his face without noticing. He held Sam close, trying to breathe. He was shaking and holding on too tight even though he knew Sam couldn’t feel it anymore. Sam couldn’t feel anything anymore. Sam would never feel anything ever again and it was all Dean’s fault. 

He reached out for the gun on the floor, the one he’d used to cause this. He wasn’t doing this. Surviving this was too far and too much to ask. This was his limit. He wasn’t leaving this warehouse and John couldn’t make him. 

The trigger was still warm from his grip, as though he’d just fired the round that had pierced through his little brother, when he turned the weapon on himself. 

***

His heart was racing and he was drenched in sweat. He was powerless against the waves of nausea sweeping over him as he wretched into the toilet as quietly as he could. Dad was still asleep snoring in the other room. He could still see the blood. He could still see the blank, slack look on Sam’s face if he closed his eyes. He threw up again, trying to push the image out of his mind. 

He felt the latest round of gagging subside and slumped to the floor curled in on himself. He was hyperventilating. He had been on and off since waking up and it was out of his control, just like the throwing up, just like the spacing out. He’d stop hyperventilating eventually or pass out, but he was past the point of being able to regulate it himself. 

“God, Sam, be okay.” Dean begged brokenly, barely whispering as his fingers clawed desperately into the back of his neck. “Please, Sam, please, please, please.”

There had been so much blood. There was no way Sam had survived, but Dean couldn’t work out how that could be true if dad and he were asleep in the hotel. He also couldn’t figure out how he was still alive. He could remember picking up his gun and aiming it at himself. He wasn’t supposed to be alive; maybe this was hell. 

No. Dean definitely wasn’t dead. For one thing, he figured hell had to be more imaginative than making him throw up and have a panic attack. He was most definitely still alive. So that meant Sam probably was too, right? 

He moaned, an uncertain pain filled sound, and turned his face against the cold tile, trying to unscramble his memories and to sort the real ones from the nightmares. He was shivering, covered in goosebumps. He felt sick and confused. He kept clinging to the idea that if Sam was dead, dad wouldn’t have brought him back here so calmly. It was almost enough to work, but Sam’s body, limp and lifeless, had been so vivid in front of his eyes. Sam dying had felt so real in his arms. He could still feel the sticky red liquid going tacky on his skin while he’d watched Sam die. He’d gotten it on Sam’s face. He’d had it all over his own face and clothes and body. 

He shook his head, trying to sort out the two timelines from each other. He started with the hard evidence. He spotted his shirt shoved under the sink and found the fabric significantly less blood coated than he remembered. That didn’t make sense because he’d taken his shirt off in the warehouse to use to stop Sam from bleeding out, but he’d taken it off here too. The shirt was definitely here in front of him though, peppered with spatter, but not drenched in blood. He’d taken it off here. He didn’t feel certain, but he had to accept it as truth. He’d thrown his blood spattered clothes aside to shower. 

He’d had a shower and washed it all off, but it hadn’t been Sam’s blood. It had been from the shifter. He considered what he remembered from the hunt. Dad had told him to shoot and then left him and Sam- No. Dad hadn’t gone anywhere. Dean had taken the shot, killing the shifter, and dad had brought him back here after the salt and burn. Sam hadn’t been even there, just dad and Dean. Sam was back where they’d left him, probably asleep because he had school in the morning. 

It was just a stupid fucking dream. It wasn’t real. Sam was fine. He assumed. He didn’t -know-. He couldn't know. 

“Sam’s not dead.” He said through gritted teeth, trying to stop his brain from taking another painful loop on the same terrifying, but ultimately fabricated, track. He needed to find a way to shut this down. His body was out of his control and he was afraid he was going to wake dad up soon if he couldn’t get himself to be quiet. God, he just wanted to see Sam, not even touch, so that he’d know for sure that Sam was okay. He already knew, but not with certainty or conviction. He needed it like oxygen, but Sam wasn’t there. 

Dean swallowed and pushed himself up onto all fours, still struggling to pull air without it disintegrating into useless hitches. There was a nokia in dad’s bag. If he could just make it to the bag without waking up dad or passing out, he could call Sam. It wasn’t enough, but it was better than nothing. He knew the number for the hotel where they’d left Sam, he always memorized it before leaving Sam, and he knew the number for the emergency cell that Sam was supposed to keep on him at all times when Dean and John were away. He reached up and used the counter to pull himself to his feet. 

“Okay.” He whispered, looking at himself in the mirror and giving himself a quick nod. He could do this. He just had to go get the phone. “Phone. Come on.” 

He unlocked the door and stepped back into the cool room, searching with his eyes in the dark for dad’s bag. He tugged it up onto his own bed and glanced over at where John was still sleeping, undisturbed by Dean’s careful movement in the room. He rummaged through the front pocket, looking for the phone. Dad always kept it in the front pocket. The cord to charge it was there and so was John’s journal, but the phone wasn’t. Dean pulled at his own hair without really noticing and looked around the room frantically as though expecting to find it waiting set out right in front of him. He wasn’t that lucky.

He heard a dry choking sound escape his throat and he clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle it as hot tears clouded his vision. Why couldn’t things ever just work the way he needed them to? Ever? Just once?

He searched through the pocket again before tearing open the larger compartment and going through John’s things. Despite the way his head was starting to swim and the tightening in his chest, he was methodical. John’s belongings were always folded and packed immaculately and John appreciated order. When he reached the bottom of the bag without finding the phone there either, he zipped it closed and sank to his knees between the two beds starting to lose his forced composure. 

“Where?” Dean breathed desperately into the snore filled, but otherwise silent, room. 

The Impala. 

“No.” Dean muttered, shaking his head. Dad never left it in the Impala overnight, but maybe he had this time. Dean hadn’t been really present when they’d arrived even though he’d physically been there. He didn’t really remember if John had guided him into the room, or if he’d walked on his own, or who had carried what bags or if John had done it all. The phone wasn’t where dad normally put it, and, like sometimes happened when the panic attacks were prolonged and intense, Dean’s memory wasn’t working as well as it normally did. He had no idea where it was. Dad had possibly even told him and Dean still had no idea. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think, and then opened them again to look around the room. 

John’s jacket was on top of the TV. 

He scrambled up and almost knocked into the TV stand, grateful that he’d caught himself before crashing into the screen. His hands fumbled with the leather and it was hard to find the pockets for some reason. The jacket jingled as he picked it up and he clamped a hand around the offending fabric quickly to stifle the noise. 

Keys. 

He dug them out and placed them carefully on the TV stand so they couldn’t cause further disruption before checking that pocket for anything else. 

Nothing. 

He turned the jacket over, and went through the other outside pocket. 

Wallet. 

He reached inside the jacket, checking the inside pockets. 

Address book. 

He tossed the jacket back onto the TV with a heavy thumping noise, not really paying attention to the sounds he was making anymore and starting not to care if dad woke up. He had no idea if dad would be pissed at him if he woke up. He needed desperately to feel something, anything, but this steady stream of anxiety, confusion, and terror. He let out a beyond frustrated quick sigh. He couldn’t keep flip flopping between hope and fear like this. He needed a certainty, good or bad. He didn’t care. He took a step towards where John was sleeping, but then jerked to a halt when a stray, but very clear and unclouded, thought passed through his mind. 

Jackets weren’t supposed to thump. 

Well, they did sometimes, but softly and not like something hard being dropped. He turned back to look at it again, catching sight of a closed pocket he hadn’t checked.

Breast pocket. 

He grabbed the material up again, jerking the zipper open and finally closing his hand around the bulky little cell phone, feeling a wave of cold in his core. He dropped the jacket again, and took a few steps towards the bathroom before he came to another uncertain stop, his hand squeezing around the phone tightly. His eyes fell on a bottle sitting on the nightstand beside John. Even though it was dark, he could see it was still mostly full. Only a few drinks were missing. 

He didn’t even think about it as he picked it up on his way back into the bathroom. He stayed composed long enough to pull the door closed behind himself before slipping back to the floor and letting relieved sobs slip past his lips, stifled by the bend of his elbow as he curled back in on himself. 

It took him six times to key in the right number, forgetting the area code the first time and dialing the voicemail to the phone in his hand twice without meaning to before he deliberately jabbed each digit, murmuring it out loud as he keyed in the numbers. He swallowed, raising the phone to his ear and unable to catch his breath as he listened to the rings. 

One. No one ever picks up on the first ring unless they’re right beside the phone. 

Two. Sam was probably asleep and just waking up hearing the phone ring. 

Three. Probably getting out of bed if the phone wasn’t right beside him. 

Four. He’d answer. Sam would answer. 

Five. Voicemail.

Sam didn’t answer. 

“Shit.” Dean swore, pulling the phone away from his ear and trying to dial in the number again. He hit a digit twice by accident and had to start over. He wanted to throw the phone in frustration, but he knew if he did dad would definitely be pissed and he’d have no way to keep calling. 

One. Dean wasn’t breathing. He didn’t even notice. 

Two. His throat felt tight.

Three. If Sam didn’t answer, Dean didn’t know what to do.

Four. No. Please. Not voicemail. 

“H’lo?” Sam’s tired voice crackled through the small speaker. 

“Sammy?” He asked in disbelief, feeling his heartbeat thudding rapidly along in his chest as though trying to run away without the rest of him. He was feeling himself shaking apart again and he hated it. He was so tired of this up and down and he just wanted it to be over. He wanted to sleep so badly. 

“Yeah. It’s...why are you calling at...Are you okay?” Sam said, his brain catching up to his mouth as he struggled to assess his newfound consciousness clearly. Alone, back in the hotel room where dad and Dean had left him, Sam sat up and stretched his shoulders and back. He felt a little disoriented and lethargic and a little annoyed, but something was wrong. Dean never just called him in the middle of the night without a reason. “What’s going on, Dean?” 

“Sam, I… can’t-” Dean interrupted himself to cough that sounded muffled.

“Dean I can’t understand you.” Sam said, frowning and rolling over onto his side. His stomach was growling now that he was awake and he hoped there was something to eat left in the fridge because he’d forgotten to get groceries after school and he’d eaten everything he’d made for supper. He got up and shuffled across the room. 

“M’sorry.” Dean hitched. He could hear Dean struggling to breathe, his inhales tattered and quick, but not shallow like he was hurt. Sam double checked anyway just to be sure.

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked. He felt more alert now that he was up and moving. He propped open the fridge door and looked over his options. He had a bottle of ketchup, a coke, half a carton of coffee cream, and an apple. He picked the apple up and brushed it off against his shirt. “Dean?”

No response, just hyperventilating interrupted by a quiet groan. 

“Dean. Did he hurt you?” Sam asked a little more firmly, sitting down at the table in the chair he hadn’t murdered the night before Dean and dad had left. He didn’t usually try to pry answers out of his brother when he was like this, especially concerning dad, but he couldn’t see Dean and it was making him feel a little stir crazy. He couldn’t make his own assessment of what had happened based on how Dean was holding himself and it was frustratingly alarming. All he knew for sure was that Dean was calling him at 3:12 in the morning on Friday and that Dean was in the middle of having a panic attack; a bad one from the sound of it. He didn’t know why and he didn’t have any way to figure it out other than by asking.

“No. Dad doesn’t hurt… No.” Dean choked out after a few seconds. “No. I....dreams… it wasn’t-”

“They’re not real, Dean.” Sam said gently, noting the way Dean was struggling to push out words and deciding not to pick a fight over Dean lying for dad right now. His stomach rumbled angrily, but he ignored it and set the apple on the table. It could wait. “I know they feel real, but they’re not. You need to breathe, Dean.”

“It’s… hard to.” 

“Where are you?” 

“Bathroom.” 

“Dad?” 

“Room.” Dean coughed again. 

“Head down, Dean. Count.” Sam said, trying to put some authority into his still sleep rough voice while he grimaced as another angry gurgle came from his stomach. He’d calm Dean down and then he’d eat the damn apple, okay? He was so frustrated with growing. Dean had never had growth spurts like this. Dean told him it meant he was going to be tall, which was fine, but he wished it would ease up a little and slow down. It wasn’t a problem he could fix so he moved on quickly whenever that train of thought passed through. Right now he had more pressing problems anyway. “In. One. Two. Three. Out. One. Two. Three...” 

Sitting propped up by the bathroom door, Dean listened and followed Sam until it was easier to find his own rhythm. Sam was patient and he didn’t stop even after several minutes had passed with Dean still struggling to inhale when told. Sam’s voice was soft, calm, and steady. Dean let himself get lost in it and closed his eyes, pretending Sam was beside him instead of a day’s drive away in a different hotel. 

“I killed you.” Dean whispered when he’d finally calmed the stuttering and hitching in his lungs. He sat up a little against the door and reached for the bottle of whiskey beside him. He unscrewed the cap and took a mouthful, choking a little on the taste, but forcing it down. As horrible as it had been being spaced out and unable to control it earlier, this hot panic was almost worse. He wanted out again. “You died. Sammy…” 

“I’m fine, Dean. ” Sam said firmly. “No matter what you dreamt, you didn’t hurt me.”

“There was a lot of blood. All over.”

“It wasn’t real. Dean, it wasn’t. I swear.” Sam murmured, silently begging Dean to believe him. If he was there with Dean, he’d sit with him and let Dean check him over the way he’d always needed to when he got like this. Sam knew if they were together and able to do that right now, Dean would come back down easy. Dreams, even the really bad ones, were something Sam could almost always disprove, either through logic or hard evidence. “Come on Dean, listen to me. Do I sound hurt, Dean?” 

“No.” Dean said, swallowing hard around another mouthful of whiskey and feeling the warmth starting to spread between his shoulders. “Just talk to me? Tell me about...anything.”

Sam didn’t question the request, just started talking. He started with seven a.m. when his alarm clock had sounded and then detailed most of his itinerary until he reached the part where he’d gone to the library. Here he got sidetracked telling Dean in detail about the research he’d done on cursed objects, specifically amulets in this case. He’d organized and cataloged what he’d learned to add to research notes later. 

“Are you eating?” Dean interrupted him curiously after a little while. 

“I’m starving and you woke me up.” Sam said defensively. Dean could picture the glare Sam would be giving him if they’d been in the same room. “You asked for this. Shut up and listen.”

“Mm. Listening to you chew. It’s great, really helping.” Dean said sarcastically, but he was smiling and his voice sounded warm. He heard Sam chuckle before he continued on, occasionally pausing for a few seconds to eat whatever he was eating. It was loud, whatever it was. 

“It was a shifter.” Dean said after a little while, long after Sam had run out of new things to tell Dean and had started reading his history notes he’d left on the little table out loud instead just for something to keep his voice going. He’d been drinking the whole time he listened, floating on Sam’s voice, and the liquor was burning in Dean’s stomach was making his skin tingle enough that he could relax. He was still aware of his anxiety pulsing uncontrollably around him, but it was starting to feel a little less intense and threatening. Sam was helping, and for better or worse, so was the alcohol. “Looked like a kid.”

“In your dream?” 

“No. Real.” Dean replied, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the door. “I killed it. It looked like a kid.”

“It wasn’t.” 

“Yesterday it was a banker.” Dean agreed with a humorless laugh.

“What?” Sam asked, finishing the last bite of the apple and setting the core down on the table regretfully. He was still hungry, but he’d get back to sleep at least now. He’d take a twenty and get a smoothie and breakfast in the morning.

“Never mind.” Dean said smiling weakly and shaking his head even though Sam couldn’t see him. “Something dad said.”

“You should go lay down.” Sam suggested. He was pretty sure Dean was down enough that he wasn’t going to escalate again. “I’ll keep talking if you want, and you just listen, but you should go lay down and try to sleep.” 

Dean considered it. He wanted to accept, but it seemed a little too needy and he wasn’t out of control anymore. He’d already woken Sam up in the middle of the night over a nightmare when, really, he should have been able to get himself in check when he’d realized what was real and what was fiction. He didn’t want to keep Sam awake any longer. 

“No, I’m okay.” Dean said, twisting the cap back onto the bottle beside him and starting to get to his feet. The world was a little wobbly, but in a way that made him certain sleep wouldn’t take long regardless of whether Sam stayed on the phone or not. “Let’s go to bed.”

“You sure?” Sam asked with a small yawn, standing up and stretching before tossing the core into the trash. He walked back over to his bed, kicking the covers back and collapsing onto the pillow with a contented sigh. 

“Yeah. I’m good.” Dean replied. “Um...Thanks.” 

“Anytime.” 

“Night.” Dean hung up and got to his feet. He walked quietly out into the bedroom, putting dad’s bottle back on the nightstand with a soft click and getting back into his own bed. He pulled the covers up around himself and grabbed the extra pillow, tugging it tightly into his arms for something to hold on to. He closed his eyes. 

Sam set the phone down on the nightstand beside himself, making sure the volume was up all the way. He didn’t think that Dean would call again. Dean sounded exhausted and wrung out. He expected that Dean would drop off to sleep pretty quickly, but he wanted be able to hear the phone just in case. 

Sam checked the clock. He still had two and a half hours until he had to be out the door. He closed his eyes thinking about how he’d be spooned up warm and comfortable wrapped in Dean right now if his brother weren’t so far away. 

***

 

When John reached for his whiskey in the morning -just a shot to get him up and moving, it wasn’t a big deal- it wasn’t there. He frowned and opened his eyes, sitting up to look around. He hadn’t even come back actually drunk last night, just after a couple beer. He could clearly remember putting the bottle there but-

It was on the other side of the bed. 

John swung his legs over the edge of the mattress between his and Dean’s beds and reached for the whiskey on the nightstand to the right. He definitely hadn’t put it there. He never slept on the right side of the bed, even after all this time and all the ways he and his life had changed in the last fourteen years. It was still Mary’s side. 

 

He unscrewed the bottle, noticing it was about a quarter missing. He’d only had enough to help him fall asleep, a couple shots, three at most. There was a lot more than that missing. It was just past seven and when he looked over Dean was still asleep curled into the blankets on his stomach. Dean had gone to bed before John had gotten back around midnight. Dean usually didn’t sleep much past six thirty unless they’d been out the night before. John frowned, but didn’t shake him awake. 

He got up and started a pot of coffee, the smell was usually enough to wake up Dean on its own. He went through his own bag looking for a change of clothes; he wanted to shower before heading out. He paused, about to pull the zipper close. He hadn’t noticed at first, but his clothes were uneven in the duffle bag, shifted sideways. He frowned and glanced back at Dean. What the hell had Dean been doing last night? 

He wondered vaguely about it as he made his way to the bathroom, undressed, and showered. Dean had always been a restless sleeper, it was probably nothing. He’d been shaken from the hunt and he’d get over it. Some hunts were harder than others and for some reason, the creature’s manipulation mostly, Dean had hard a hard time with this one. John had always boxed the bad hunts, the ones that didn’t sit right with him afterwards, up in his mind and he considered it to be a part of being effective and safe in combat. 

As a soldier, as a hunter, it didn’t matter really. Separating oneself from the chaos was important. Dean, for the most part, was good at compartmentalizing. He’d come a long way from when he’d been a child, but sometimes he still struggled. If John was honest, he didn’t know a hunter who didn’t struggle with it somehow. 

“You went through my bag last night.” John said after he’d returned from the bathroom clothed and ready for coffee. Dean was already dressed and sitting up at the table, his own coffee in hand. He looked tired, but aware. 

“I’m sorry.” Dean said; no denial, just passive acceptance. Dean set the coffee down on the table and waited for whatever came next. He’d tried to keep it organized, but he’d known he was being sloppy even as he’d gone through the piles. There had been nothing he could do to prevent it. He’d needed the phone.

“Why?” John asked, taking a seat across from him with his own mug. Dean relaxed and wrapped his fingers back around his own cup.

“Pills.” Dean lied. He didn’t know why he was lying this time. It was more of a habit than necessity sometimes. Still, the fact that he’d called Sam seemed like something he should keep to himself. He wasn’t sure exactly which rule of John’s, if any, it would have broken, but he didn’t want to admit to any of it. He didn’t want to talk about the dreams, the panic attacks, the way he’d fallen apart after the hunt- he didn’t want to talk to anyone about it, especially dad. 

“Are you...out?” John asked, frowning. From his count, Dean should still have had some capsules left in his bottle, even if he sometimes doubled up the dose the way John knew he always had. 

“No.” Dean replied. It was always best to be as honest as possible. Stories were easier to stick to when there were less details to keep track of. “Low.” 

“I’ll pick up more.” John nodded, studying his oldest contemplatively as he drank his coffee. He couldn’t put his finger on the truth, but Dean was lying to him. It was believable, Dean would sometimes get paranoid when he was low on medication that there wouldn’t be any replacements and he sometimes looked for reassurance that there would be. John didn’t have any in his bag right now, and if that’s what Dean had been looking for last night, he would have already mentioned it when John had come into the room. Dean’s behaviour was predictable when it came to the pills. 

John knew it was problematic, but it felt too hypocritical to intervene in Dean’s increasing substance abuse. John wasn’t a great example of sobriety himself, and he never had been. Dean was on the road to becoming an addict if John didn’t put a stop to it, but he always got the replacements Dean needed anyway. He told himself it was because he wanted to make up for the hurt that he caused; the pills were a way to apologize and bring relief. 

At the true core of it, the pills worked to make Dean dependant on John. From the first few times John had slipped him the pills without explaining the ways they might be dangerous, the tablets had created a feedback loop of pain and relief in Dean that John had complete control over. It hadn’t been John’s intention initially. The first time he’d given them to Dean it had been because he’d been more brutal than he’d ever been before and he had scared himself. He’d felt guilty and he’d wanted to take his guilt away and keep Dean from giving too much away. The promise of relief had always been a powerful motivator for Dean and over time John had noticed the compliant way Dean responded to the drugs, and to John, when John provided them. That amount of control had been too tempting. It was more intoxicating than the whiskey or beer that he used to help himself sleep at night. 

Dean going through his bag wasn’t really about the pills, but John couldn’t fathom what Dean was trying to hide with his lies. Dean hadn’t really been himself the night before. Maybe he was still a little off. He seemed alright, but Dean was good at hiding things and pushing through when he was under a lot of stress. John decided to let it slide for now. He’d keep an eye on Dean and see if he did anything else odd in the meantime.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well. This chapter is so long I’m cutting it in two. Here’s the first 27 fucking pages of this monstrosity. 
> 
> Leave me a comment! I'm always interested in feedback.
> 
> **Trigger Warnings: Drugged sexual assault, drug abuse.** 
> 
> Summary: 
> 
> Dean’s 19  
> Sam’s 15
> 
> Dean was on the ground, the thing had jumped on him from above, having somehow scaled its way into the hay loft without either of them noticing before it was too late. The rugaru had him on the ground and had sunk its teeth into his stomach as Dean tried to catch up with how he’d ended up on his back and scrambled to weaponize the tools in his hands. He fumbled with the lighter, the aerosol can in his other hand completely useless without the spark from the flame.

Dean was so tired of reading. He wasn’t particularly slow at it, but man was it boring. Especially this kind of reading. He was about thirteen or fourteen different reference books in, and even though he was using the indexes to help him search for anything interesting when they were available, most of the material he was pawing through were old hunters journals like dad’s. They had no index, no order save chronological, were full of anecdotal information at best, presented fabricated lore at worst, were often written in sloppy half-illegible or faded penmanship, and contained plenty of useless personal details wrapped too tightly with the important information to skip over. So far today, his efforts hadn’t been all that fruitful as far as collecting new information was concerned.

It was slow going. 

He wondered what John was up to and where his visit to the police station had taken him. John was out working on finding out the details about their current hunt while Dean catalogued at the hotel. They were hunting a rugaru and they already knew how to kill it. John’s plan was to go after it tonight once he’d checked the bodies to make sure they were right about what weapons to load up. Dean had heard of rugarus before and he’d been able to tell John how to kill it right away without having to refresh his memory, but he’d never hunted one. He figured John probably had though since he’d picked it out in the paper by name. 

Dean secretly wished that he hadn’t agreed to do this, but he was committed now. He was supposed to catalogue new or useful information and to keep an eye out for anything he deemed interesting or important. John liked to keep his own journal updated with the most relevant information they could find and Dean had stepped in to take his turn doing the digging. This was what Sam normally did for them back at the hotel, but Sam was preparing for finals. Instead of shuffling it off onto Sam like they normally did Dean had bargained with John, offering to do it instead so that Sam could have a break. 

_Reading. Right._

He forced his eyes back to the page again and skimmed a few lines about some long-dead dude’s leisurely Sunday afternoon with his long-dead wife before skipping to the next entry. It was about the same dead dude’s hunting trip that turned out just to be kids setting things on fire and not in fact a supernatural phenomenon. Two more similarly useless entries had Dean closing the journal, tossing that one aside onto the bed across from the table, rolling his eyes and wondering where in the hell dad always dug these journals up from. All the journal entries in that one had been useless; drabble, hunts that turned out to be dead ends, or hunts that weren’t dead ends, but where the creature in question had escaped anyway. Dean secretly admired Sam’s patience, and wondered in frustration at the quality of their source material.

Was there some sort of stash of mishmashed supernatural junk somewhere which John had curated that Dean and Sam just didn’t know about? Dad was always coming up with these random sources to sort, research, and catalogue. Dean had no idea where it came from. Half the time it just showed up in the trunk and disappeared with the same abruptness once Sam was done. It was entirely possible that John had a collection somewhere and hadn’t told them about it. John never really kept them more informed than they needed to be, sometimes less than what Dean felt they needed to be. 

One thing was certain. Regardless of where the stupid journals came from, Dad never had to sit and do this. He wrote his own personal notes in his journal when they learned or discovered new information, and he collected research notes from Sam to review and copy over into his own shorthand. All three of them were capable and researched before heading into an unfamiliar hunt, but dad didn’t take part in the passive research like Dean was doing now. Dean knew Sam kind of liked going through and picking the old books apart. When Sam wasn’t so busy, he didn’t get as bogged down or bothered by all of the random personal bullshit they had to sift through. 

Sam could spend hours sorting through information and come out on the other side in a perfectly good mood. Most of the time he found something new or interesting that he wanted to share, and when he struck gold in the form of a leather bound journal, his face always lit up with enthusiasm. It was the same look he got when he reached the really good part of a novel, or when he found the solution to a particularly difficult math problem. Sam was a mathlete and while Dean teased him for it the clever look of pure determination and accomplishment that Sam wore when he worked things out was...well...

 _Shit. The books._

Sam was a great topic for speculation on his own time, and one he returned to often, but if he was seriously fantasizing about watching Sam read, he’d hit a weirder low than ever before. There were lots of things more interesting about Sam to think about than his ability to read good. Aside from being nerdy, Sam was clever and his sarcastic humor took no prisoners when he felt like playing along. On the outside, Sam always appeared to be more serious than Dean, but it wasn’t really true. Where Dean was quick with pop-culture references and puns, Sam always planned for the long game. Dean thought about the little disapproving and amused, but not really shocked or scandalized, smile and laugh Sam used to greet most of Dean’s crass jokes. 

He wondered what Sam was doing right now. It was about two thirty. Sam would probably be done school soon. Dean mused about calling him to check in. He hadn’t talked to Sam in almost four days. Sam had told him about some project he’d been doing, but he didn’t remember the details. That never seemed to matter to Sam, it seemed more important to just have someone listen. It kind of bugged Dean that he couldn’t remember though. He’d been tired, nearly falling asleep, but he liked to know what was going on with Sam. Maybe he’d ask Sam how it had gone and hope that Sam would give him some clues about the context. One thing he knew for sure was that if it were Sam going through this garbage, he’d probably have this done by now... 

_No wonder you’re not done; focus stupid._

Dean sighed and stood up. He was fighting a losing battle trying to make himself read through all of these. He was never going to actually focus enough to do it. He leaned over the table, and picked up another one of the hunters journals that he hadn’t gone through yet. He weighed it in his hands as though that would tell him something useful and then flipped it open to a random page. He read a few lines about a successful salt and burn and set it to the right. This person knew what they were doing; they had earned a spot in his new ‘shit Dean swears to actually read’ pile. He picked up another and flipped it to a random page. This person did not know what they were doing. They’d tried to salt a werewolf. Dean tossed that journal over onto the bed in the new “no wonder you died” pile. He knew most of the hunter’s journals he was going to toss there were old enough that the authors would be dead anyway, but the title in his head made him feel vindicated regardless. 

In the end he wound up with twelve journals he deemed worthy of going through and fourteen others he’d rejected because they weren’t specific enough, were too faded to read, were plain stupid, or offered no practical hunting advice. If anyone ever asked, he’d read them all one hundred percent from cover to cover with intense discipline and attention to detail. 

For now, he gathered up a couple of the journals from the “shit Dean swears to actually read” pile and flung himself down on the bed that wasn’t covered in rejected books. He opened it to the first few pages and skimmed through it, dog-earing sections he thought he should come back to afterwards. He made it through three journals before his attention started to wander again. He glanced at the clock. It was three-twelve and the phone was right there on the nightstand beside him. He tossed the journal down beside himself on the bed and dialed, hoping Sam would answer so that he had a more interesting way of procrastinating than letting his mind wander.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s me.” Dean grinned.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice asked cautiously over the line. “All good?” 

“Yeah. Just bored. What are you doing?” 

“Walking home from school.” Sam replied, slowing his pace so that he wouldn’t end up out of breath from talking and walking at the same time. It was nice out anyway, a little extra time in the sun wouldn’t kill him. “Bored? Aren’t you supposed to be hunting?” 

“Reading.” Dean sighed, rolling onto his stomach and playing with the leather flap of one of the journals beside him. “Hunter’s journals.”

“Oh. Where’s dad?” 

“I dono. Police station. Looking at some victims, asking some questions, reading some reports.” Dean replied. He assumed so anyway. John hadn’t called or come back yet. “Probably be back soon.”

“What are you hunting?” Sam asked, sounding carefully disinterested. The tone made Dean roll his eyes affectionately. Sam always feigned indifference about what they were after when it came to dad, and he tried to disguise his curiosity from Dean, but he always asked eventually. 

“It’s gross.” Dean replied teasingly, holding back the answer on purpose to make Sam suffer a little. He rolled over again onto his back and tucked one of his hands behind his head, the journals completely forgotten beside him. 

“How gross?” Sam asked, sounding a little more intrigued. There was a park up ahead with some play equipment and a few benches. He’d probably duck through the fence and find a place to sit. The cars driving beside him were making it a little hard to hear. 

“Human eatin’ human kind of gross.” Dean replied. 

“Yeah, that’s pretty gross.” Sam agreed, as he glanced around to see if anything was coming before stepping onto the pavement to cross to the other side of the road. 

“It’s called a rugaru.” Dean expanded. “Born human, start craving human, always hungry. Anyway, how’s school?”

“Less gross than that.” Sam laughed at Dean's nonchalance. “Still kind of gross though honestly...I...well it’s almost summer.” 

“Almost.” Dean agreed with a frown. Sam counting down for vacation was abnormal. Summer wasn’t a less busy time for the Winchesters like it was for some families, they just had to do less paperwork as they moved from town to town. Dean thought summer had always been a mixed bag. 

Summer, when they’d both been kids, had meant endless hours on their own to explore the confines of however far Dean would let them stray, to marathon tv shows in their hotel rooms or at Bobby’s, to stay up too late, and to sneak into movies they were too young to see until Dean had stopped letting them do those kinds of things. Summer when they’d been children had also come with less stability, no breakfast programs to scrounge a piece of toast or cup of juice if Dean had gone a bit too long without hearing from John and the cupboard was near empty. 

Now that they were both older, John wanted to take advantage of both boys being available to hunt. John’s plan, as he’d already told Dean, and Dean had already passed on to Sam, was to take as many cases in succession as they could before September struck. Dean expected that meant they would take case after case with little pause except to reload, refuel, and sleep. Dean loved hunting, and Sam liked it more than he admitted, but Dean was already tired thinking about the workload ahead of them. He couldn’t imagine Sam was looking forward to it. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Sure.” 

“Sam.” Dean sat up, concentrating on Sam’s tone of voice a little more closely. There was a waver there that told Dean there was something wrong. Nothing huge, because Sam could have called him already about it, but something was on Sam’s mind regardless. “What’s going on?” 

“Just a lot to do.” Sam turned into the park and dropped his backpack before flopping down beside it onto the first park bench he encountered. “End of semester. Deadlines catching up.” 

“Yeah.” Dean nodded, thinking back to exams and thoroughly glad he wasn’t about to do any himself. They’d always been a disaster. “You’ll be alright, Sam. You always are… nothing else...?”

“Promise it’s just school.” Sam sighed, leaning his head back against the bench and looking up at the sky. It was very blue. “I don’t have enough time.” 

“Sammy.” Dean’s voice had a careful authority in it, the type that conveyed his hope that Sam would listen, but that didn’t order him to. This was the version of Dean that had taught Sam how to walk, how to hold a rifle, how to print his name, what to do if he got lost, and when to ask for permission or beg for forgiveness. “Listen to me. If anyone’s smart enough, it’s you.” 

“It’s hard.” Sam muttered. 

“It’s supposed to be.” 

“Not like this.” Sam said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He knew he sounded like a spoiled kid and he didn’t like hearing it in his own voice, even while he was doing it. It was Dean on the other end of the phone though, so he didn’t spend too long worrying about his tone. Dean already knew he wasn’t opposed to hard work and he didn’t have to prove it here. Sam generally basked in hard work and challenge, but there was a difference between difficult and impossible. “It’s supposed to be fair. I’m supposed to have half a chance. It’s not supposed to be like this.” 

“Yeah, but life’s not -you really gonna make me say it, Sammy?” Dean joked gently, sparing them both the platitude, but conveying the meaning nonetheless. 

“No.” Dean could hear the fondness in Sam’s voice and knew he’d at least relieved at least a tiny bit of Sam’s tension, even if he’d done nothing to help the problem. “I know. It just sucks.”

“It does.” Dean agreed. 

“When will you be back?” Sam sighed, sounding tired. 

“Couple of weeks. Probably finished this one today or tomorrow.” Dean replied, accepting the change in topic without resistance. “There’s a poltergeist dad wants to swing north for before we come back for you.” 

“Is he going to make me transfer with one week left in the semester?” Sam asked suddenly as he counted the weeks left before the end of the year. If John hauled him off in the last week before he could complete all his assignments after all of this effort, he was going to be livid. 

“No.” Dean said quickly. Sam’s voice had picked up an edge that Dean knew wasn’t directed towards him, but that he wanted to dissuade anyway. “Dad will probably drop me off with you and stock up. No point in making you transfer with vacation so close. He never made me.”

“What if he-”

“He won’t, Sam.” Dean said firmly. “If it’s a problem, I got it.” 

“How?” Sam asked suspiciously.

“Not sure.” Dean admitted. “Just worry about your homework, Sammy.” 

“Dean-” 

“Shit, I gotta go.” Dean said quickly. There was a lot of jostling on the other side of the phone and it sounded like Dean was getting to his feet. “ Dad’s back. I was supposed to be done these like...two hours ago. Call you when I can.” 

The phone went dead and Sam let the hand holding it fall into his lap. He slouched down on the bench and stared up at the blue sky, wondering if John had really come back or if Dean had just wanted to end the call quickly. Based on the way it had sounded like Dean was scrambling up on the other end, he suspected John really had shown up. Dean was about to be getting orders from dad, or helping dad map out a plan of attack, or possibly telling some bold faced lie about how he’d been reading the whole time John had been out. 

Sam thought about the thing Dean had described; a rugaru. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t bring any specific details to memory. They hunted so many different things and there were monsters that were so rare that they sometimes went years between encounters with certain species. The infrequency with which they ran into some species of monsters combined with the on again off again relationship Sam had with hunting, made it difficult sometimes for him to remember obscure name, random trivia, and proper weapon straight away. 

Dean could almost always remember. Dean seemed to have amazing recall for that kind of thing and if made Sam jealous sometimes. It also frustrated him. If Dean had spent half the time memorizing his school work the way he seemed to memorize song lyrics and hunters’ facts, he’d have had impressive grades in school. Sam thought vaguely about researching the rugaru after supper to see what he could find out before remembering his real plans for this evening with a groan. There was no way he was dedicating any time to extra-curricular research at the moment, he had plenty he needed to be doing already. Who was he kidding? 

He was swamped. 

*** 

It had run, but they weren’t far from where the rugaru had killed its last victim. John signaled him forward, and they stepped out into the old barn, covering each others’ backs and searching for the creature. It wouldn’t go far, even though it knew they were after it. It had already fed, and they were the closest people around. It wouldn’t pass up an opportunity for prey, even if that prey was hunting back. It had changed recently enough that it still had human reasoning and emotions, but the hunger was too strong for a rugaru that had already fed to let it do more than follow instinct. 

Dean and John were essentially their own live bait, hoping to lure it out so they could send it up in flames.

It had superhuman speed and it moved on all fours. It was strong and its movements were erratic and unpredictable. Dean had been able to hear it somewhere in the back of the barn when they’d come in, running like it was trying to circle around without being spotted, but it had gone very quiet now that they were further inside. He wondered where it was tucked out of view. There was an old tractor that it could be crouched behind, and a couple of horse stalls that they couldn’t see into. Otherwise the barn wasn’t very big, but it was very dark. 

“Dean-” John’s voice was suddenly sharp with warning, but it was too late. 

Pain.

Dean was on the ground, the thing had jumped on him from above, having somehow scaled its way into the hay loft without either of them noticing before it was too late. The rugaru had him on the ground and had sunk its teeth into his stomach. As Dean tried to catch up with how he’d ended up on his back, he scrambled to weaponize the tools in his hands. He fumbled with the lighter, the aerosol can in his other hand completely useless without the spark from the flame.

He felt a flash of heat not far from his hip and then the thing was shrieking and darting away from him. He wanted to grab at his wounds, but they weren’t finished yet. He forced himself to sit up up, aimed, and added the blast of his own homemade blowtorch to the fire already licking the creature’s flesh. With the two of them, it didn’t take long. When it was dead, Dean dropped what he was holding and pressed his hands over the place where the rugaru had gotten him. There was a lot of blood and he felt very shaky. 

“Dad-” But John was already there, pulling his own t-shirt free over his head and using it to press against the torn flesh. 

“Can you stand?” John asked, letting Dean take the shirt himself once he was convinced Dean could hold it there with enough pressure. 

“I dono.” Dean stuttered back and Dean tried gingerly to pull himself to his feet. He gasped and felt the world go a little fuzzy around himself. The pain was intense, divided between a dull ache and a stabbing sharpness, and trying to pull himself to his feet had made him feel a little nauseous.

“Better not.” John said, a hand firmly pushing down on his shoulder to keep him on the ground. “Give me a minute to clean up, then we’ll get out of here.” 

He stepped away then to take care of as much of the evidence of the hunt as he could. He didn’t have time to really clean up, the mashed mess on Dean’s stomach needed to be bandaged, but he did a quick once over for anything obvious. 

“Better go.” John said once he was satisfied, crouching down beside him and stretching Dean’s arm over his shoulder. Dean groaned and the shimmery effect that had flooded his vision when he’d tried to stand on his own threatened to drag him under for a few seconds. “Dean?” 

“Feeling a little...not all here.” Dean admitted. 

“We need to get to the car.” John said firmly, a little worried Dean was going to drop, and tightening his grip around Dean’s waist. “Come on, Dean. I can’t carry you that far on my own.” 

Even though he was distracted by his current injuries, Dean glanced sideways at the odd tone in John’s voice. He sounded a little sad, a little regretful, and his words were twinged with something that sounded remarkably like fear. It was weird. John hadn’t intended him to hear it, and he was sure it meant something, but Dean didn’t have time to dissect it. They had to get moving because that little foggy feeling wasn’t going away and when their combined first few steps jostled him too quickly it intensified. 

“Let’s go.” Dean ground his teeth together and forced his feet forward. 

***

John pulled back the comforter and moved Dean’s t-shirt aside to inspect the wounds, checking to make sure the bleeding had stopped. He was fairly certain Dean was just going to need a while to recover from the lacerations, but he wanted to keep a close eye for now. He’d sanitized and closed the wound with the efficiency that came with years of practice, but he was always more vigilant about contamination when it came to bites. 

The damage was bad enough that he’d almost taken Dean to the hospital and he still would if he had to, but Dean seemed to be pulling through alright without a trip to emergency and the unwanted attention that came with one such appointment. Rugarus fed viciously fast, and John had been terrified for a few seconds that he’d watched the thing rip Dean’s stomach out in front of him. To his relief, he’d been on top of the rugaru before it had done more than hack into Dean’s skin. Thankfully, Dean’s organs were all intact and in place. 

Satisfied that the wound wasn’t bleeding any longer, John replaced the bandages and smoothed Dean’s shirt flat. He leaned back in the chair he’d pulled up beside Dean’s bed trying not to think about the close call or the aftermath. 

He’d gotten Dean to the car and then John had half-carried him into the room and stitched his skin. Dean had finished half a bottle of whiskey before John had been anywhere near done and he had gone white knuckled and blotchy. He’d lost consciousness close the end, making it almost easier then for John to finish it quickly without the resistance of Dean’s flinches and stutters. John had gotten Dean sewn back together and had heaved his dead weight as gently as possible onto one of the beds.

When Dean had come to not long later, he’d been lucid and alert, but in extreme discomfort. He’d taken the water and a small amount of food John had forced him to consume under the bribe of pain medication and sedatives. A combination of his body needing to recover, general exhaustion, the alcohol, and the combination of pills had knocked Dean back out cold. 

John studied Dean’s face. 

Dean looked very quiet and peaceful, not at all reminiscent of how Dean usually slept. Dean usually tossed a bit, sometimes keeping the frown in his eyebrows as he drempt, and often muttering. With Dean so docile, John figured the pain medication and sleeping pills were doing their jobs. He reached out, brushing a piece of dirt from Dean’s forehead with his fingertips. 

“Fuck, Dean.” John whispered, recognizing the pull in his stomach and closing his eyes for a moment. He willed himself to pull away, but he didn’t move. He was angry with himself for letting this happen and he’d never dealt with self-directed anger well. He was also shaking with leftover adrenaline from the kill. He wanted it out of his system, but Dean was too broken already. 

The desperation mounting inside him was intense and he blamed Dean for bringing it out in him. It made him want relief. He tried to ignore it at first, concentrating instead on Dean’s steady breath brushing against his wrist and pretending to listen as though concerned. Really he knew he was listening to see just how deeply asleep Dean was. What he carefully wasn’t thinking about doing was so fucked up. 

He let his hand slip down the side of Dean’s face over his cheek and jaw. Dean murmured something then, a half-formed thought slipping free from somewhere deep in his sleep. John swiped a careful thumb over Dean’s bottom lip watching as Dean’s tongue licked after it on reflex. Otherwise, Dean didn’t stir. John was pretty sure his oldest was too far away to wake up without a serious effort. 

John swallowed. If he did this, he couldn’t excuse it as happening in the moment like he had other things he’d done. He’d ordered Dean’s clothes off during punishments claiming internally that striking skin would make the point more effectively. He’d let himself rub up against Dean while dolling out those same punishments by blaming the adrenaline of the moment for his arousal. He’d palmed Dean through his clothes during beatings and had jerked off thinking about the ways he could make Dean react, but he’d never gone beyond that. 

He’d told himself for years that it only happened when he was really drunk, but that wasn’t completely true and he definitely didn’t have that excuse tonight. He’d finished the bottle of whiskey Dean had started, but he wasn’t able to kid himself into thinking he was actually drunk or that his judgement was clouded. He was buzzed, but really drunk? 

No.

Still, alcohol had alway been a good crutch, a good excuse. Alcohol was always there at night to help him sleep instead of him lying awake counting his sins, and alcohol was always there in the morning to help face himself and the monster he’d slowly become. He’d always blamed alcohol for making him do stupid things; things he swore he wouldn’t otherwise do or that he didn’t intend to do. Alcohol made people make mistakes. John had made a lot of mistakes. There was no one there to prove one way or another how drunk or sober he was. 

Dean’s was quiet, and still, and unaware, and warm underneath his fingertips where they still rested against Dean’s skin. He licked his lips nervously, eyes lingering on the curve of his cupid’s bow and the sharp line of Dean’s jaw and chin. He couldn’t believe he was about to do this, even though he knew he was going to. 

“Dean.” John said firmly, gripping Dean’s shoulder slightly and giving it a small shake. Dean didn’t respond. His breathing went on as steady as it had before. He was out, completely dead to whatever was happening around him. John swallowed, pinching the bridge of his nose before growling in frustration and giving in with a defeated groan. 

He unbuckled his belt, but he resisted the urge to brush another thumb over Dean’s lip. He worked himself over quick, rough, and dry; his eyes on Dean’s mouth hoping to catch a glimpse of Dean’s tongue flicking out again from between his teeth. He lowered his hand to Dean’s throat, tensing his fingers on the tender flesh there as he bit his own lip to stifle his own groan. 

God, that mouth. He wondered what it would be like to fuck-

He gasped aloud before he even finished the thought. His eyes dropped closed as he caught his breath and listened to his heartbeat thudding in his chest. He swallowed, a little surprised at what he’d just done and decidedly too sober to excuse what had just happened. He couldn’t stay here like this. He had to move. He had to clean up. 

His first instinct upon opening his eyes was to shoot a nervous glance at Dean’s face to check for signs that Dean had woken up at all. He was fairly certain that Dean wouldn’t remember it, even if Dean had faded in and out of consciousness at some point. Generally speaking, alcohol and sleeping pills were a combination that didn’t do the memory any favors. Dean was also likely high from the pain medication, and John knew from experience that painkillers made Dean spacy and unaware. 

He fixed his own clothes first and then stood up. He’d gotten Dean’s shirt dirty and he needed to get rid of it. He reached down, easing Dean up into a sitting position, leaning him limply to rest against John’s shoulder. He felt Dean stir at being jostled and then he groaned as John pulled at the back of his shirt to pull it up over his shoulders. 

“Dad?” He heard Dean mutter sounding confused and distant. His hands froze where he was holding Dean against himself and he glanced at Dean’s face. He didn't think Dean was even fully awake. He hadn’t opened his eyes and he was slurring. “Wat-r you...?”. 

“You bled through your shirt.” John lied, struggling for a second to pull the shirt free from Dean’s arms. “Lay back.”

“But-” Dean frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion as John laid him back onto the pillow. 

“Sleep.” John insisted. He pulled the blankets back up over Dean. It wasn’t worth the hassle of pulling a fresh shirt over Dean’s head. Dean was heavy. It also wasn’t worth the risk because Dean had taken him by surprise and clearly wasn’t as far away from consciousness as John had thought. 

He stepped out of the room and disposed of the shirt in the dumpster out back, hoping Dean would forget about it. He was starting to feel paranoid now that it was over. When he got back, he took a shower, letting the water wash away as much of the upheaval he was now experiencing as possible. He told himself it was guilt making his stomach uneasy, but it hadn’t really been guilt that haunted him after hurting Dean for a long time. He’d been guilty in the beginning, but it was more akin to worry now; fear that he’d get caught somehow after all this time. 

He had to get past it and let it go, like he did every time. No one knew what had happened here, probably not even Dean, so John had to work on forgetting it too. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to forget this time as easily as he had other previous indiscretions. Tonight, Dean had been completely at his mercy. Dean hadn’t had any semblance of a choice this time. Dean hadn't even had the choice between letting himself stay present and letting himself go blank. The complete control made John feel powerful. 

The truth was Dean was getting older, he was hitting his prime and, while John was still more experienced and could still best him, it took an effort that it had never taken before to knock Dean flat. There were times he felt the strict control he’d always had over Dean starting to waver. It wasn’t that Dean had ever fought back against him or like he had started disobeying orders, but Dean got a look in his eye sometimes that reminded John of an expression Sam wore much more regularly; defiance and disagreement. It had always been there in the corner of Dean’s eye if John thought back through the years to all of the times he’d made Dean follow orders he didn’t like. The difference was that Dean was bigger now, and if he ever really stood up and refused to follow John, John didn’t really have much he could use other than Sam to keep Dean compliant. He was almost certain that his decade or so’s trump card -if not you than him- was on the cusp of becoming obsolete. 

Sam himself was unpredictable; a wildcard shuffled into the deck that John didn’t know how to bet on or plan for. John was always a little concerned about what Sam knew and he was worried that someday, possibly soon, Sam would do or say something that would finally make Dean say no. Sam was anything but compliant when it came to John and his boys were close, more so than most teenage brothers their ages. John had already seen signs of it starting to happen.

There were times when Dean had started giving John counter-offers to orders instead of simply doing as he’d been told. Most of Dean’s bargaining was in response to something that Sam wouldn’t like or to obtain something Sam needed or wanted; most recently, Sam having time off from researching in exchange for Dean taking the time to do it instead. 

The trend had planted that little pit of anxiety permanently in John’s gut surrounding Sam. The older and more independent Sam got, the less likely John would be able to use him as insurance. For now, John still had what he needed to keep Dean doing what he wanted, but he didn’t have Sam the same way and there was nothing he could do about it. 

He checked his bag tiredly for another bottle of whiskey, not wanting to think about this anymore. For now, Dean was asleep and none the wiser, Sam was back at the hotel where they’d left him a couple weeks ago, maybe three? John had no idea how long it had been. He’d never been very good at keeping track of that. Regardless, there was nothing in this moment to do or say that would make what he’d done less dangerous or less exhilarating. It was time to sleep.

He found what he needed and his hands were shaking a little as he broke the seal and took a drink directly from the bottle. Maybe if he got drunk enough now, he’d forget his unsteadiness about getting caught and maybe be able to pretend he’d been drunk the whole time. Hopefully he’d kill two problems with one bottle. He didn't find much humor in the thought, even though it made him cough a harsh laugh as he tipped the bottle to his lips again.

He drank it fast, eventually slumping onto the other bed without bothering to change his clothes. He reached up to the nightstand and pulled one of the bottle of pills down onto the bed. 

He didn’t care which ones he swallowed, enough of either would knock him out. 

***

It took Dean a minute to remember where he was when he woke up with a sharply aching bandaged stomach, feeling groggy and suffering from a headache. He considered not dealing with whatever state he’d just woken up in and closing his eyes to go back to sleep, but he was in too much pain to drop off again. He groaned, pushing himself higher up on the mattress with a flinch and leaning against the headboard to get his bearings. 

The rugaru. He’d gotten jumped by the son of a bitch rugaru. 

He wondered vaguely where dad was, but he could see there was a note waiting for him on the bathroom door if he could get himself over there to read it. 

He kicked the covers off of his legs, wrapped a protective arm around his middle, and got to his feet. It was stiff going at first and if he twisted the wrong way he regretted it instantly, but he very quickly figured his way around without causing too much additional annoyance to himself. He retrieved the note, glancing down at the brief message.

Gone for breakfast. Be back soon. Taking you to Sam. Leaving when you’re ready. - Dad 

He crumpled it and threw it in the empty waste basket by the TV stand before going into the bathroom to brush his teeth. His reflection looking back at him was a little worse for wear. He had dark circles under his eyes, was bruised and scuffed, and was giving off the distinct impression of someone about to drop after a particularly brutal boxing match. Despite all that, he was alive. He was standing, although with a bit of difficulty, and the rugaru was dead. It was a win, even if he felt like roadkill. 

He scratched his cheek absently as he was brushing his teeth, musing darkly about how long it would take to heal enough before he was back in action. Even though he was in pain, he was glad dad was dropping him of with Sam. This was the type of wound dad wouldn’t push him through and that suited him just fine. He needed a bit of time mentally, not just physically. He was trying hard not to think about what would have happened had John not been there to torch the bastard and to clean him up afterwards. He probably would have just died on the ground underneath the thing. Even if he’d managed to kill it on his own, he would have bled out there. He’d been in no condition to put himself back together. He couldn’t even remember John getting him to bed. 

He spat into the sink. He felt like shit and he supposed that was reasonable, but he also had this little nagging feeling in his stomach. It was a feeling he was familiar with from years of second guessing himself and obsessing over danger. It was the feeling that he was forgetting something really important. Something was amiss, but he didn’t know what. 

He rinsed the brush under the tap, scrunching his eyes together, trying unsuccessfully to remember whatever it was that he was uneasy about. Over the years, this feeling had reminded him to check how much money he and Sam had left, to get groceries, and to tighten up lies when people might suspect something was amiss. He could usually identify the cause without much difficulty when he put his mind to it, but right now he was coming up completely empty. It felt like he was chasing the ghost of a memory, frail, shaky, and not entirely substantial. 

He closed his eyes, trying to follow the faint memory. If this weird feeling in his stomach was because of a memory, what came next? He frowned, his hand reaching up to rest on his cheek before sliding over his own jaw and stopping around his neck. He knew that path, it was familiar and unwelcome, but not new. He swallowed, taking his hand away from his own skin as though he’d been burned and planting his palms on the bathroom sink; trying in earnest now to remember the night before in as much detail as he could. 

John had brought him to this hotel after the hunt. He’d gotten stitched up and had had some whiskey. He’d passed out and later John had given him pills to help him relax and sleep. After that- Nothing. 

Nothing except the foggy impressions on his mind that... maybe...something wasn’t entirely right.

He looked himself over, but found nothing of note except the obvious wounds he’d gotten on the job. There didn’t seem to be any distinctive marks on his body that he could reference for information, and even if there were, he was certain he was too banged up from the hunt to pick them out. 

He sat on the side of the tub, holding his stomach loosely and looking at the tile with an uneasy frown. He felt like remembered John moving him, but not being able to open his eyes. Maybe John’s hands lifting him? He reached up and touched his own shoulder, fingers trailing behind himself to reach for the hem of a shirt that wasn’t there. Had he gone to bed wearing a shirt? He remembered having one on after being bandaged, but things got substantially foggier in his memory after that.

His train of thought was interrupted by the door opening out in the room. He could hear John moving around, setting whatever he’d picked up down on one of the beds. The familiar scrape of John’s boots against the carpet made his hair stand on end. 

“Dean?” John called from amongst the jingle of keys being set down and the rustling of a paper bag being opened. 

“Yeah.” Dean called back, tightening his grip around his stomach to brace as he pulled himself back up to his feet. 

“Good.” John said, glancing up as Dean pushed the door open and made his way over to where John was sorting out their food. Dean sat down on the bed, careful not to jostle anything and accepted the coffee John was holding out to him. “Want to get on the road, drop you off with Sam, do those hunts we talked about.”

“Yes sir.” Dean nodded, taking a careful sip of the bitter hot coffee. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stomach it, but he’d try anyway because coffee was usually a refuge and being around John was setting his nerves on edge.

“Probably be till the end of the month.” He informed Dean casually. “Couple days behind and working alone so it’ll take a bit longer than we thought. Finish those journals.” 

“Yes sir.” Dean repeated. John nodded, and passed over the other pieces of Dean’s breakfast before taking a seat on the bed across from Dean with his own. 

“How you feeling?” John asked as he unwrapped the breakfast sandwich in front of him. 

“Confused.” Dean replied truthfully, looking for clues on John’s face. He didn’t know what he was looking for, just that being around John was making the feeling of white hot ‘something’s wrong’ that much more intensely in his gut. 

“Bout?” John asked, raising an eyebrow and taking a long swallow of his coffee. 

“Did you...take my shirt off me last night?” Dean asked, feeling a little reckless, but wanting the blanks filled in. 

John hesitated. It wasn’t long enough for anyone who didn’t know him well to notice, but Dean caught it. His father’s micro expressions were something he was accustomed to monitoring and he saw the split second of blank calculation and decision before John opened his mouth. Dean knew whatever came next would be either an outright lie, or at least a partial fabrication. 

“Some of your bandages leaked through.”John frowned at him. “You remember that? You were barely conscious.” 

“Yeah. I don’t...really remember.” Dean admitted, his stomach twisting as he considered the reasons John would lie. “It’s more like a far away dream I guess.”

“Try not to think about it too much.” John shrugged. “Painkillers and sleeping pills can mess with you. ” 

Dean nodded slowly, taking a couple of contemplative bites and chasing them with another swallow of coffee. It was unlike John to tell him not to worry. It made him do the opposite. Alarm bells were sounding in his head and his heartbeat had picked up in his chest. He swallowed tightly, trying to reign in his response. John was hiding something and he had sinking feeling he didn’t really want to know the truth. 

He didn’t say anything else, but as they finished breakfast and packed up, it didn’t escape his notice that the shirt had disappeared. The garbage hadn’t been collected, but it wasn’t there. If it had been stained through there was no way John had packed it back into their things. It wasn’t on the floor anywhere, or on top of the bloody towels John had left in the bathroom after he’d finished working on Dean the night before. Dean knew he was being obsessive- it was just one more ruined shirt in the history of thousands of articles of clothing the three of them had collectively sacrificed in hunts over the years - but that nagging feeling in his stomach wouldn’t let him put it out of mind.

When they were packed up, John carried their things back to the car and Dean took the opportunity to stretch his legs outside while John returned the hotel key. They were going to be driving a long time from the way dad had slammed back his coffee just to brew another in the small one cup coffee machine on the little table of their room and down that one too. Dean walked the length of the parking lot, kicking absently at some stones on the pavement and not paying much attention otherwise. When he reached the end of the parking lot, he turned to loop back. That was when he saw the dumpster against the side of the building and came to an unwilling stop. 

That same twisting in his gut told him to go check, but that was ridiculous. Dad wouldn’t take the time to throw it out outside when he’d left the rest of the bloody mess on the floor to be someone else’s problem. That didn’t make sense. 

He took a step towards the car, deciding to head back, but unable to pull his eyes away from the dumpster. This was stupid but, then again...there was no harm in just checking to ease his mind. He glanced towards the main office, seeing John still standing in line after a woman who had most of her purse spread out across the counter. It looked like whatever was going on at the front desk was going to take a minute. He probably had time. 

This was ridiculous. He’d had a weird dream, had had a weird combination of drugs, and had been in a lot of pain. John was right, there was no need for him to try to pick it apart any further than that based on some baseless feeling of unease. 

Except… 

He looped the fingers of his right hand loosely around his throat again and swallowed. 

Except...everything in his past, whether explicit training and unfortunate experience, had taught him to always be alert and to be suspicious. He had good instincts and he’d been conditioned to follow them. As stupid as it probably was, if they drove away he’d never get another chance to go look. He’d have to be satisfied with letting the question live unchallenged in his mind and that kind of making peace with the unknown wasn’t something Dean was particularly good at. 

He groaned in frustration with himself and then walked quickly across the pavement, ducking around the side of the building. He gripped the lid of the dumpster, buckling a little when he tried to reach with both hands and accidentally pulled at his stitches. He re-shifted, keeping one arm around himself the way he had been since waking up and using the other one to push it open instead. 

He’d fully expected not to find it, but the shirt lying on top of the trash in the dumpster was definitely his. He stared down at the faded artwork on the front of the white shirt. He recognized it as one of the Metallica ones he’d picked up at a second hand store. He’d expected, or hoped, to check the dumpster and find nothing. He’d expected to close the lid and tell himself he was being paranoid, that probably whatever shirt he’d been wearing was just wrapped up in the towels in the bathroom and he’d missed it. Instead it was right there in front of him. 

He reached out gingerly, wincing at the momentary stretch and then pulled the shirt from the dumpster, trying not to touch more of it than he had to in case it had been on top of anything revolting. He stared at it for a few seconds, taking in the information in front of him and trying not to give in to his queasy stomach.

That wasn’t blood. 

That was- No. He would remember that, right? If John had...That wasn’t…

Dean dropped the shirt back in the dumpster and let the lid fall back into place with a louder bang than he’d anticipated. He leaned against the wall of the motel and shook his head. That wasn’t his shirt. No way. It was though, and he knew it even as he tried to deny it.

He could very loosely remember John making him sit up. He could remember John peeling off his shirt. He knew he’d spoken, John had said something back, but he had no recollection of what. He tried again to force his brain to recreate last night, but there was nothing else there to remember. He now had a pretty clear picture about the nature of what John had done, but he didn’t know what had happened exactly. He’d either been asleep, passed out, or his memory had been wiped clean by the combination of drugs he’d been under. 

“Fuck.” Dean whispered. He tipped his head back against the wall, feeling a couple of angry tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. He didn’t want to cry about this. He didn’t want John to have the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart over whatever John had decided to do to him while he’d been unconscious. It wasn’t like he could change it or do anything about it. 

He lifted the hem of his shirt and his face to give it a quick dry and squared his shoulders as well as he could given the circumstances. He had to get back to the car before John did so that he didn’t have to explain where he’d gone. He didn’t want to own up to the fact that he knew what John had done. He was so full of shame and guilt. He felt disgusting. He was weak. He was helpless. There was nothing he could have done to avoid it. It was done and completely out of his control and Dean hated feeling out of control. 

He reached the car just as John was coming out of the main office. He lowered himself into the passenger’s seat, struggling to find a comfortable enough position to ride out however many hours he was going to spend sitting next to John. He wished he’d taken the time to shower this morning. John had cleaned most of the blood from his skin and around the wound, but he was still a little covered in dirt from the night before. The dried debris from the rugaru hunt didn’t really bother him. It was his own skin that was the problem at the moment. It was gross, and it wouldn’t belong to him again until he had scrubbed it raw. He just wanted John’s hand-prints off of him, wherever they were invisibly imprinted on his skin. 

“You good, Dean?” John asked after he’d swung himself into the car beside Dean and started the engine. 

“Just hurts.” Dean supplied without looking up, his hand brushing over where the wounds and bandages were concealed underneath his clothes. It did, so it wasn’t really a lie even if it wasn’t the whole truth. John hummed a quiet note of agreement, or acknowledgement, Dean didn’t care which. 

After they’d pulled onto the highway and he’d closed his eyes trying to shut out the rest of the world with sleep for however long he could make himself, he felt something nudge the back of his hand. He looked down at the bottle of pills John was holding out to him as he drove. 

Pain medication. 

He licked his lips, not reaching out right away. Pills had gotten him into this mess to begin with, but they were also a tempting way to ignore it. The first five minutes of this drive had been unbearable enough and he didn’t want to stick around for any longer. It was a two day drive straight through to Sam, during which Dean would be cramped beside his father in the Impala. Being this close to John, knowing what had happened while he’d been knocked out was eating him alive. He didn’t want to feel anything, and he knew he wouldn’t if he took what John was holding out to him. It wasn’t smart, or safe, but if John was offering him an out he wanted it bad.

“I want the other ones too.” Dean bargained after a few seconds of staring at the pain pills, but not reaching out for them despite desperately wanting to. He didn’t want to have to be conscious, and the pain pills, while they often led him to sleep, didn’t always keep him knocked out the same way the sleeping pills apparently had last night. It was a counter-intuitive choice, and definitely a mistake, but Dean had always been an escapist and he wanted to sink back to that level of un-awareness. His brain was screaming at him that this was a mistake, but he was beyond caring. 

John didn’t reply, but dropped the pain medication in his lap before reaching back into his jacket and pulling out a secondary pill bottle. He dropped the second bottle into Dean’s lap beside the first without comment and without taking his eyes off the road.

Dean picked up the pain medication with careful fingers, tipping two into his palm and swallowing them dry. He unscrewed the second cap and dosed himself with one of those, leaning back and tucking the pills into the right hand pocket of his jeans so that John couldn’t reach as easily to take them away without pulling over. He didn’t know if John pulling over and reaching into his pocket would wake him up or not, the sleeping pills were largely uncharted territory, but it was better than nothing.

He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, waiting for the pills to kick in and make him vacant. As he started to drop off, he felt John’s hand run softly through his hair once and he pressed his lips together tightly, trying to ignore the goosebumps that raised on his skin from the sensation. He wished he hated how it felt. 

He heard the radio start not long later, although it was a little farther away than he thought it should sound. That didn’t matter. He still liked it, even if it was far away. Dean liked music. The rhythms were predictable. Sometimes music made it easier for him to keep breathing. He huffed a quiet laugh at the stray thought. He had no idea where it had come from, but it amused him. 

These musings didn’t really matter. Just a little longer and he’d be gone anyway. 

***

Thursday afternoon, Sam was balancing on the raised edge as he walked along the curb in the vague direction of the hotel. He’d thought about going to the library directly after school, but he didn’t have any spare money for a snack and, predictably, he was starving again. He needed to at least stop by the hotel for something to eat first. In reality, he knew he probably wouldn’t bother going out again once he got back to the room. He went to the library as a way of segmenting up his days, but he didn’t really need any of the materials there or the quiet space. It was plenty quiet back in the room and he didn’t have all that much to do for homework, the library just gave him somewhere to be that wasn’t back at the hotel waiting to hear from dad or Dean.

It was warm out, and people were milling outside the school waiting for their rides, loading buses, and chattering with the typical end of day bustle that came with high school dismissal in early June. He kept catching snippets of conversation happening around him, but he never really looked up. 

“...swimming tonight?” 

“Gotta babysit.”

Sam didn’t need to watch his feet as he balanced on the raised pavement, but he watched them anyway. Watching his feet meant that he didn’t have to answer any awkward questions or make eye contact with anyone.

It wasn’t that Sam was normally so asocial, but he had a lot on his mind and not a lot of stamina left over. Exams were coming quickly and since this was the end of his first official year of high school, this was the first year that grades really mattered on his transcript. He had a lot of work to do in the final couple weeks of the semester and he was feeling the pressure. Even though Sam was as caught up as he could be, he hadn’t started studying yet and it had him on edge. 

Preparing for High School exams as a Winchester was particularly difficult. Sam’s exams in Junior High had pretty much just been larger-scale chapter tests. He’d always done well because he’d always had the ability to teach himself the material fast enough to catch up if he was behind. This year, unlike his prior exam experiences, most of the exams Sam was going to be preparing for were cumulative, meaning they covered the whole year or semester’s worth of material. Surprisingly, Dean had warned him about this upcoming hurdle pretty early in the year. 

He’d listened, and he’d taken Dean’s warning seriously while secretly hoping he’d catch a break and that whatever school he ended up attending to finish out the year wouldn’t have cumulative examinations. There was always a chance. Sam had realized a long time ago that the education system was a lot more fragmented and less uniform than he would expect in such large scale institutions and that policies often depended on the school and district in question. There were large scale parameters that educators were expected to follow, but on a micro level school life looked completely different from one campus to another. 

He hadn’t been so lucky. His exams were all cumulative. He’d looked over the course syllabus for each of his classes less than a week ago and he’d found that in each course, except for Math, he was missing whole topics of study that he would have to learn before writing the tests. This was true for a couple of different reasons; whatever schools he’d gone to in the last year either hadn’t covered that material or he’d missed it during one of the many transfers. He had a whole shopping list of things he had to catch up on before writing his tests and he was equally stressed about a couple of group projects that were going nowhere. 

“Friday or nothing, parents are back Sunday.”

“Alright, I’ll get the beer.” 

Sam thought about his own approaching Friday night. Dean would probably call him if he could. Dean liked to check in and when Dean was away he usually called Fridays to ask about the school week. He didn’t have a reason to think Dean would miss this week. He’d probably be talking to Dean in less than twenty four hours. Dean’s call Tuesday afternoon felt like ages ago even though it had only been two days.

“Call me if it’s slow at work, I’ll come for a visit.”

“Tonight? Payday babe, everyone’s going to be shopping.” 

Sam wondered if Dean was through with the journals yet. He was a little disappointed they would disappear without him ever seeing them. Sam wasn’t in love with hunting the way Dean was, or obsessed with it the way dad was, but the old books and the information contained within them fascinated him. He knew part of Dean’s issue with the journals specifically was that he hated going through the irrelevant information. Dean had always preferred direct and to the point and hunters journals were anything but. Sam didn’t mind it, but he was glad he didn’t have homework from dad to complete this time too. 

“...that old car?” 

“Fucking beautiful...”

Sam tuned into that conversation. He doubted he’d recognize or really appreciate whatever make and model the car was, but old cars always made his head turn for a few seconds. They reminded him of Dean and the car magazines Sam sometimes grabbed for him on snack runs or that John would leave with Dean’s things on occasion. Sam glanced around for the two other boys he’d been eavesdropping on and followed their gaze across the parking lot. 

He’d been wrong. He did recognize the make and model of that car, he just didn’t know why it was back so early. He went from surprised, to elated, to worried someone was dead in less than a breath. Dean had said it would be a couple of weeks yet before they’d be back. That had only been a couple days ago. He took off at a brisk walk across the parking lot and broke into a jog when he saw who was sitting waiting for him. 

Dean was sitting on the hood of the car, his arm looped loosely around his stomach with an amused smile on his face as he watched the moment Sam noticed him there. He’d woken up about four hours ago with not long left before they reached Sam. He’d eaten, had some water, and had gotten his head on as best he could. He still felt a little groggy from the medication, but it had been hours since his last dose and the stitches had started to pull again. 

He’d put off taking more even though he wanted to because he’d wanted to pick Sam up from school. Even though John was pretty loose about Dean’s use of substances, he wasn’t risk taker enough to let Dean drive completely stoned. Sober enough had been necessary. 

When they’d reached town, they’d let themselves into the hotel where Sam was staying and John had wanted to shower before he took off again. Dean had taken the keys with a quick shout to let John know and had gone to meet Sam for groceries. His quick check in the fridge had told him they desperately needed a run before they’d be able to cook anything resembling a meal and with his body as sore as it was at the moment, he did not want to get stuck carrying groceries later when he could get them now with the car. 

“Hey Sammy-” He braced for impact as he didn’t have time to get out a warning about his injuries before Sam was in his space and had looped his arms tightly around him. It was only a few seconds before Sam froze, and pushed back to look at his brother’s face. 

“Dean?” Sam said, noticing the stiffness in Dean’s body and the way his eyebrows had contracted in pain. Dean didn’t have a lot of tells when it came to pain, but he’d never been able to train that reaction out of his features.

“I’m fine.” Dean promised with a quick smile. Sam shook his head, seeing through the lie. Dean looked exhausted and pale, and he was hurt badly enough that his breathing had gone a bit shallow when Sam’s arms had closed around him. 

“How bad?” Sam asked. He was biting his lip in concern, standing between Dean’s legs, his hands resting on the hood on either side of Dean’s thighs where they’d dropped after Sam had noticed him flinch. Dean had only hugged him with one arm and his other arm was still wrapped gingerly around his own stomach as though to protect it.

“Not that bad.” Dean replied soothingly “Just some stitches. Not a big deal.” 

“Can I see it?” Sam asked tugging at the hem of Dean’s shirt in question. Dean shot him a tiny firm, yet affectionate and teasing smile. 

“Not here. Public indecency, Sammy. At least wait till we’re inside.” Dean winked, trying to break the tension on Sam’s face. Sam’s lip twitched at the dirty flirtation, but his eyes were still filled with concern. 

“Dean-”

“Come on. People are starting to stare.” Dean shook his head. He pulled the keys out of his pocket and pushed Sam back gently with a boot against his hip before sliding off the hood of the car. He was trying to move fluidly, but he wasn’t having much success in concealing all of the stiffness in his movements. Sam knew him too well, right down to the was he inhabited his own skin, for him to ever hide anything. 

Sam glanced around without really caring who was watching, but let it go for now. Dean crossed to the drivers side and Sam dropped his backpack into the back seat before joining his brother on the front bench. He wanted answers, and he’d hopefully get them out of Dean in the privacy of the closed car. 

“We need to get groceries before heading back to the hotel. You have an empty fridge and dad’s heading out when we get back.” Dean told him as he started the ignition.

“What happened to you? Why are you back so early?” Sam asked, as Dean pulled out of the school parking lot and onto the road. 

“Got some stitches. Hungry?” Dean evaded. Sam’s stomach was growling too loudly for him to deny it, so he nodded impatiently before continuing his line of questioning. 

“How’d you get hurt? 

“I’m fine, Sam.” Dean groaned. “It’s not that bad.” 

“Yeah right. Pull over.” Sam frowned. “I want to see it.” 

“Sam-” Dean protested.

“Now.” Sam demanded, glaring at Dean. Dean sighed and pulled into a parking space on the shoulder, jamming the car into park and half-turning towards Sam. 

“I’m fine. I got hurt hunting. It’s not that bad. I just need some r and r, so we’re back early.” Dean caught Sam’s hand before Sam could lift his t-shirt. He didn’t want to show Sam the mess across his stomach until John was gone. He didn’t want to risk a fight between the two when he was too tired to break it up. “I don’t want to take the bandages off right now. You can change them yourself later.” 

“What happened?” Sam relented, letting Dean push his hands away and accepting the boundary. 

“The rugaru. It was fast...and smart.” Dean replied, looking out the windshield with a shrug. “We hurt it and cornered it, so it hurt me back. We killed it.”

“How long are you staying?” Sam asked, searching his face for any trace that there was something Dean was leaving out. 

“I don’t know.” Dean replied. “End of the month at least.”

“Dad’s giving you that long?” Sam said, surprised and worried. If John was giving Dean that long off, it was likely worse than Dean was letting on. “How’d you manage that?” 

“His decision.” Dean shrugged, turning the ignition and putting the car back into drive. “Now, let’s stop wasting time and go get some stuff to eat okay? I’m not sticking around if the plan is to live off of ketchup and whatever that green junk you have sitting in the bottom of the fridge is.” 

“It’s kale.” Sam rolled his eyes, _I’m glad you’re back_.

“Whatever.” Dean smirked, _I missed you too_. 

Dean flicked the blinker and merged back onto the road.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to add a brief shout out the songs I listened to while writing this since music is generally a part of everything I do. Check em out if you'd like; they're fantastic:
> 
> [The Wolf in Your Darkest Room](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVvK9FKLn78) : Matthew Mayfield
> 
> [God's Fault](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWCFwzxHcFY&=&list=RDSVvK9FKLn78&=&index=2) : Matthew Mayfield
> 
> [Youngblood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RJSbO8UZVY) : 5 Seconds of Summer
> 
> [I'm not a saint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PtxRHn5qOmw) : Billy Raffoul
> 
> [aawake at night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGy9wdgCWEk) : Half-alive
> 
>  [I see You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=506k3_V4z7o&list=RD506k3_V4z7o&start_radio=1) :Missio
> 
> [Take what I can get](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onUXMBlr5-0) :Matthew Mayfield
> 
> [Dizzy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BCaxIMypPck) :Missio
> 
> [Casual Affair](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyx0W5UhJGM&list=RDWVDroO8FBrE&index=27) :Panic at the Disco
> 
> [Warrior](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqL05fOtoMQ) : Sia, Paloma Faith


End file.
